


We Are All Earth

by xahra99



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Character Study, Complete, Crusades, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Implied Relationships, Jerusalem, M/M, Other, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AC AU. Kadar survives, and joins the Templars. To prove his loyalty he must locate the Jerusalem Assassin's Bureau-and confront its rafiq.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_Jerusalem; July, 1191_

Blood soaked the floor of Solomon's Temple as foreign voices echoed from its vaulted ceiling. Swords gouged ancient plaster from the walls and struck sparks from stones carved a thousand years before.

Kadar’s sword fell from his hand as he sprawled on dusty stone. Pain danced down his spine and pinned him as easily as a knife. Above him a mailed knight raised his sword. Kadar watched in bitter disbelief as the blade descended in an arc that would end beneath his ribs. 

Someone shouted. The knight staggered, raising his sword to deflect a slender blade that angled for his eyes. Steel flashed in the torchlight as the throwing dagger ricocheted away, its falling clatter lost within the cacophony of battle that filled the chamber.

The reprieve was temporary. Kadar did not recall whose blow ripped open his side. Darkness fell as swiftly as the slam of a door.

He woke screaming.

Kadar had not been an Assassin _fida'in_ for long. He'd thought himself gravely wounded when the _dais_ cut and cauterised his finger so he might more fully wield his Order's blade. He felt far worse now. Bright lines of agony crawled across his skin. He tried to rise, and the pain engulfed him, charring every thought and movement until there was little left but ash.  

"Here," somebody said. "Drink this. It may help."

 Kadar felt the rim of a pottery cup touch his mouth. He drank in desperation. After a while he found that he could blink and breathe without pain.  He turned his head carefully, wincing, and saw an old man in a dark robe sitting by his side. The stranger held a small clay oil lamp in one hand. His skin was wrinkled and pale as vellum in the golden light.

"Can you speak?" he asked Kadar in accented Arabic.

The words caught in Kadar's throat like bones. He choked. A weight pressed upon his chest with each cough. Every word was an effort. "What did you give me?" he asked once he could speak.

The old man bent down and placed the lamp on the floor with a hollow tap. "I shall take that as assent," he said. "The medicine I gave you should help numb the pain. How do you feel?"

Kadar could not have described how he felt to his own brother, never mind a _Franj_ from the lands across the Roman Sea. He shook his head mutely. The pain flared. He dug his nails into the straw ticking of the mattress and rode it out.

"How do you feel?" the old _Franj_ repeated.

"I thought I died," Kadar said.

The old man smiled. "Not quite," he said, "but almost."  His hand rose to touch a large wooden cross that hung around his throat. The movement drew Kadar's eye. He peered into the gloom behind the _Franj a_ nd saw the corpse.

 The man lay on a bier a few steps from Kadar's cot. His cheeks were sunken; his face relaxed and inhumanly grey. There was a subtle taste of corruption to the air. Kadar grimaced. The Assassins followed Islamic burial customs, if little else. Corpses were interred before they began to spoil. The Crusader practice of lying in state came from colder climes.

"Why is he here?" he asked.

"Our brother was killed during the fight in the Temple," the _Franj_ said without censure. "Several men were wounded. I tend to them in our infirmary. The room is small and the men within are less kindly disposed towards you than Tayyib here. He shall do you no harm."

"Tayyib?" Kadar asked in surprise. 

The old man tilted his head towards the corpse.

Kadar peered closer. He expected the corpse to be a northman like the doctor, but beneath the dead man's deathly pallor his skin was darker than Kadar's own. His heart beat a swift tattoo within his chest. He tensed his limbs, felt something inside his right leg rip, and gritted his teeth. ""You're all Crusaders. He wasn't. Why do you keep his body here to rot?"

"Regardless of our origins, we are all Templars here together," the man said reprovingly. "In life Tayyib served our cause. In death we honour his body."

"What do you want with me?" Kadar said. "I'm an Assassin."

He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken. He had fought as an Assassin fought, wearing the sash, robes and hidden blade of a _fidai'in_. He had fallen carrying a sword. The Templar could not have failed to notice. 

"Oh child." The old man smiled sadly. "That's not for me to answer."

"What is this place? What happened to my brothers?" Kadar added the plural at the last moment.

"So many questions," said the old man. He smoothed his blood-stained black robe and settled onto his stool. "Let us begin with simple answers. You can call me Garnier. What is your name?"

It took Kadar a moment to decide that he would answer. His name was no great secret. "My name is Kadar," he said.

"Excellent." The old man looked pleased. "As I said, I am Garnier de Naplouse. I am a Frankish knight and by God's grace a doctor of the Knights Hospitaller. We found you bleeding out on the floor of our great Temple. Following some discussion the decision was made to spare your life.  You are still within Jerusalem."

Kadar was disinclined to trust anything the doctor told him, but Garner's explanation seemed reasonable enough. He could hear the mournful keen of a muezzin somewhere outside the walls, backed by a muted chorus of hawkers, barking dogs and crowing roosters. The muezzin's cry told Kadar that he was not in Masyaf. He could not distinguish the sounds of Jerusalem at night from any other place, but it seemed logical that he was still there.

"I thought there were no _Franj_ in Jerusalem," he said. "Salah ad-din made them leave four years ago."

Garnier smiled. "The Temple is our stronghold here. Did you think we would abandon it so easily?"

Kadar did not know what to think. "Then I am in the Temple? What of my brothers?"

"Nearby." said Garnier. "As for your companions, one at least is dead." He frowned. "The other has escaped."

Kadar fought a wave of elation for a moment before he realized the true meaning of Garnier's crisp words. Malik was skilled, but Altaïr was a master. He was far faster than Malik, and possessed uncanny second sight. Altaïr would have been the one to return to Masyaf. If Altaïr had returned, then-

Malik was dead.

Kadar's heart howled a silent lament. His eyes searched for weapons. Garnier's oil lamp might produce a painful burn, but nothing more. He saw the gleam of oiled leather at the doctor's waist as Garnier shifted and realised that the Templar wore a sword loosely belted over his robes.  

The old man had a weapon. All Kadar needed was an exit. His whole body tensed, sending a ripple of pain coursing over his muscles.

Garnier cocked his head. He seemed not to have noticed Kadar's discomfort. "Here I think comes one who can provide the answers that you seek." He rose from Kadar's bed and called into the dark "De Sable? Is that you?"

Kadar did not wait for reinforcements. He swung his legs across the bed and lunged for Garnier's sword.

He did not get far.

Kadar should have swung across the bed, yanked the Templar's blade from its sheath and slit the old man's throat from ear to ear in the space between one breath and another. As it was, merely rising left him in a cold sweat. His right leg was wrapped in heavy bandages, forcing him to swing the limb from the hip rather than bend his knee, and his left leg could not bear his weight alone. He lurched from the bed and fell heavily to the floor.

_Crippled_ , he thought. _I'm crippled_.

He doubled over, fighting nausea.

"Don't be foolish." Garnier said crisply. "You're far too weak to stand."  He saw Kadar's hand still stretched towards his blade and raised his eyebrows. "Is revenge all your kind can think of?"

"You killed my brother," Kadar snarled. Vomit rose in his throat and he had to take a deep breath in order not to disgrace himself.

"You killed our men," snapped Garnier. "One lies in this very room!"

"Tayyib died in Templar service," said a deep voice from behind Kadar. "Fighting for peace. His sacrifice shall be remembered."

The voice sent a chill down Kadar's spine. He raised his head as the speaker stepped into the light. He was a tall man, and well-favoured, with broad shoulders built for Templar armour. Mail glinted at his neck and wrists. His white surcoat was blazoned by a scarlet Templar cross. From Kadar’s lowly vantage, de Sable’s head seemed to touch the ceiling. He seemed as solid as a tower, and, like a tower, Kadar had no hope of fighting him alone.

Kadar had expected hostility at best; torture at worst. De Sable paid him little heed.

"Has he been awake for long?" he asked Garnier.

"Not long," said Garnier. "His wounds are grievous, though- I hope-not permanent. And I think that he shall serve our purpose. The first word from his mouth was a question."

"We shall see," de Sable said with the casual arrogance of a man used to command. He turned to Kadar. "How do you feel, Assassin?"

"What do you want with me?" Kadar asked. He did his best to project more confidence into his own voice, but found it a pale projection of De Sable's own booming tones. He was helpless here. He had no weapons, not even his hard-learned Assassin skills. He doubted he could even rise without assistance.  "Why did you bring me here?"

"That depends upon you," said de Sable. He crouched down opposite Kadar, his mail whispering martial music as the links slid over one another like silk. His head towered several hands-breadths above Kadar's own. "You're here because Garnier likes experiments -and I have no objection if you may serve our cause. Tell us of the Assassins, boy."

Kadar’s head swam with unaccustomed pain. "I'll tell you nothing," he spat.

"What do we think we are?"

"You're Crusaders," Kadar said. "Invaders. War-makers. Infidels."

De Sable rocked back on his heels. He cradled the lamp in mailed hands, and the bright spark of the wick danced before Kadar's eyes. "We are both Franks, but we're members of a far greater Order. Bound in blood, much like your own brotherhood. We are Templars, and we work to bring peace."

Kadar shook his head doggedly, his movements painful and heavy. Bright agony kindled in his leg. "So you say."

 "My lord," Garnier protested. "He has not the strength. Philosophy can wait."

"He needs to learn our ways. No doubt the old man has fed him only lies."

"Yes, but not now," said Garnier. He hastened around the bed. Kadar heard the clink of glass upon a pottery before Garnier reappeared with a full cup in his hands. He offered the drink to Kadar, who shook his head. Refusing took his last scrap of strength.

Garnier's thin lips tightened. "You should drink."

The shadows danced and flickered as Kadar’s sight dimmed. He blinked, but his vision grew no sharper.

"Leave him be," de Sable said as he stood. Shadows draped him like a cloak. "Before I go, there's something he should know about the Assassins." His hoarse voice echoed round the vaults. "Know this, boy. Your master Al Mualim was until very recently a member of our brotherhood. Now he hides within his eyrie, where he schemes to keep our treasures for himself and sends his hounds against us. What do you say to that?"

Kadar had no words. He succumbed, and fled into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Kadar woke, and knew that he would live.  He waited for ten slow breaths before he opened his eyes to mentally examine his body as he would check his weapons before a fight.

Each breath was painful. His right side had borne the brunt of whatever injury had felled him, and he had at least two broken ribs. His right leg was bound in blood-soaked linen bandages. He tried to bend his knee and gasped as scabs beneath the wrappings broke painfully open. The joint seemed twice at least its usual size.

He opened his eyes.

Sun speared his sight. A blade of light lanced down from a narrow window set into one wall and reflected from the white walls with blinding effect. Kadar blinked and raised his hand to shield his face. His skin was spattered with blood and bleached the colour of almond shells by the strong light.

He looked around.  

He was alone on a cot in an unfamiliar room. The chamber was small; the size of a madrassa cell or caravanserai cubby, though the roof arched high above his reach.

Kadar sat up. His muscles screamed and his broken ribs ached like he'd been struck. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath quickened automatically and he took a second to force himself to calm. When his breathing had steadied and exhaling was merely painful rather than agonizing he slid his right hand under his leg to support his knee. Then he swung from the bed and stood. 

For a terrible moment Kadar thought that he would topple to the floor. Then his Assassin training took over. Muscles that had leapt from minarets and raced from pillar to peak in the arid Syrian mountains tensed as he regained his balance. He swapped his right hand with his left and supported himself against the wall with his right arm as he limped forwards. The effort left him bathed in clammy sweat.

He took a deep breath and moved forwards. Again. And again. It was less than three strides from the bed to the door. The journey took Kadar several minutes, and left him drained and shaking. He leant against the carved wooden frame and tried the door.

It was locked.

Kadar moaned. His hands slipped against the slick wood, and he fell.

It took him longer to crawl back to the bed than it had to make his tentative journey. He sank back upon the bed and tried to think despite the pain.

The door was locked, but the window was large enough for him to climb through and a window was as good as a door to an Assassin. Kadar could not race across the rooftops as he once had, but there were other ways. There was a Bureau somewhere in the city. He could find it, and be safe.

But had Al Mualim betrayed them?

Kadar wondered if he had dreamed de Sable's accusations. The Frankish knight had said that the Master of the Assassins had once been a member of the same strange brotherhood as he. That he'd betrayed the Templars and sought to kill them all. The Al Mualim Kadar knew would never have used the Assassins for his own selfish aims.

It was too strange a thought for Kadar to invent for himself.

He buried his head in his hands. His right wrist ached, and the fingers did not close as smoothly as they once had.

He felt as if he stood on shifting sand.

The scholars said that men were born from clotted blood. Solomon's Temple had been soaked in blood the night he fell.  Altaïr had shed first blood when he slit the watchman's throat. The last blood spilled upon the ancient flagstones had been Kadar's. Somewhere in the melee Malik's blood had stained the stones.

His brother's death ached as badly as his bones, but the thought that Malik had died, not for peace, but for one man's selfish gain, struck Kadar to the very heart.

_What if we were not meant to save the Holy Land_ , he thought, _but to deliver it to Al Mualim?_

He smoothed his hair back with his hands. Stubble bristled against his fingers. He felt as if he had fallen from a land of simple truths into a world where nothing he believed was true.

_If nothing is true, then everything is permitted. Or is our Creed too, only lies?_

_If there is any truth to Robert's words, then I should not return. But should I then remain in the household of my enemies?_

Kadar waited until sunset before he crept to the window. He crouched beneath the sill with his wounded leg held out straight before him and peered through the star-shaped holes pierced in the shutter at the courtyard below. The square seemed empty except for a few empty pots and a broken, dirty fountain. The wind blowing in through the lattice smelt of dust and cypresses. Kadar saw no guards. He heard only the sounds of the street.

He watched as the setting sun bathed the courtyard in golden light and lent the small square's mud-brick walls a dignity they did not otherwise possess. 

Kadar flexed his right hand. He felt his knuckles crack and tendons stretch painfully where they should have been strong and flexible.  He had no hidden blade, no sword. But he had his wits and what little Assassin training he could still use.

As he slid his fingers through the holes that pierced the shutters he hoped it would be enough.

The window opened easily. Too easily. There was no balcony outside, only a narrow sill that was just wide enough for Kadar's boots. He used his arms to drag himself onto the sill and straightened to grip the top of the frame, bracing his body in the opening while he leant out into the courtyard. The wall above him was featureless and smooth; far too steep a climb given his current condition.  There was another window to his right, and a narrow vine that ran across the courtyard to a lower floor. Kadar could see the flat tops of buildings beyond.

He flexed his knee and felt scabs tear loose. Then he took a deep breath and swung out to inch, lizard-like, between the six feet of bare plaster that separated the window of his room from the window of the next. The gap was small, little more than the width of two men's arms. Kadar would have made short work of such a climb before his accident. Now he sweated, and thought only of the fall.

He swung his right leg stiffly across to the second sill. The shutters were closed and latched. He traced the frame with one outstretched finger, but found no handhold. The star-shaped shutter grille was inset slightly, one hand-span's width from Kadar's questing fingers. He'd have to hold all his weight on his lame leg to secure a firm hold on the shutters.

Kadar glanced down into the courtyard and let go of the frame. His leg buckled painfully under him. He felt his stomach lurch as he toppled and landed with both his hands knotted into the grille. The edges of the stars bit painfully into his fingers. That small pain was like a kiss compared to the agony that blazed within his knee. He bit the flesh of his cheek and warm copper flooded his mouth.

It seemed like he hung there for hours, but it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. After a while he got a good grip on the sill with his left foot and twisted, positioning himself within the window with his arms and shoulders braced so that he had a good view of the courtyard. His breath caught painfully in his throat and his right leg would no longer bear his weight.

_I can do this_ , he thought.

He was painfully aware that he had no choice.

He looked up and saw the vine that he had noticed from his window.  The plant cast a snakelike shadow over the shutters. Kadar reached up, grasped the plant, and tugged. The vine was as thick around as his wrist. It creaked as he pulled on it, but did not snap.

Kadar took a deep breath and trusted his weight to the vine. Thorns hidden in the foliage bit painfully into his hands as he swung out over the courtyard. His leg was a dead weight, but his arms and shoulders took the strain. He swayed like a pendulum over a three-storey drop. Pain stabbed his chest like daggers. Kadar has expected it, but the pain robbed him of his breath all the same.  

He was half way across the courtyard when the vine finally tore loose. There wasn't much in the way of warning; just a tearing sound and the abrupt slackening of his handhold.

Kadar fell.

He realized just before he hit the ground that there was someone in the courtyard below. Once his knee cracked against the dusty bowl of the long-dried up fountain, he did not care. Pain lanced through him from his injured ribs. He screamed, spat blood where a tooth had been knocked loose and screamed again.

"Disappointing," de Sable said from behind him. His voice sounded very like Kadar's tutors at Masyaf: cool and dry and dissatisfied.

Kadar scrabbled backwards. His spine came up hard against the fountain’s spout; a carved stone spike as high as his arm from wrist to shoulder that would have finished what the Templars had started had he fallen a hand-span to the side. He wrapped his arm around his chest and felt bone shift beneath his skin. "It was a trick," he said. Every word cost him. "I should have known."

De Sable settled himself on the chipped marble rim of the fountain. "No trick," he said. He raised a goblet to his mouth, grimaced, tipped back his head, and drank. Kadar could smell the liquor from where he sat. "I expected you to try," he said. "You didn't get far. I'm disappointed."

"That I tried to escape?" Kadar gasped. "Or that I failed?"

"There's still time." De Sable's cool blue stare was a dark mirror of Altaïr's. "Stay, and you might learn something. Leave, and you will die. Do you think your master will let you live, knowing what you do? Your ignorance is all that keeps you safe."

Kadar rolled to his knees. He watched the knight carefully from the corner of his eyes. When De Sable did not move he got a good grip on the cracked lip of the fountain and dragged himself up to a sitting position. The scratches on his hands left smears of blood across the dusty marble. "Why don't you just kill me?"

"If we can convince an Assassin that our cause is just, we can convince anyone." De Sable said. He held out his cup to Kadar. Starlight gleamed on pewter.  "Some wine?"

Kadar wondered if de Sable mocked him. He shook his head. "It's not our way."

"Fortunately for me the Templar Order allows its adherents simple pleasures," de Sable said, smiling. He lifted the goblet to his mouth and wiped the dregs from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Unlike the Assassins."

His condescending tone irritated Kadar. "There is much you don't know of the Assassins," he snapped, remembering too late that he should not remind de Sable how much he knew of the Assassins, in case the Templar Master decided to extract the information.

"Enlighten me." Robert smiled genially, as if Kadar was his guest at some fine banquet instead of sprawled broken on the floor. "Tell me your ways."

"I'll not speak of our secrets."

"As you wish. I have enough for now. Recall that your teacher was once one of our Order.  You're not meant to save the Holy Land, but to hand it to your master."

"You lie."

"I speak the truth. Tell me what you believe."

Kadar licked his lips. His mouth was desert-dry. He wished that the fountain spouted water. "I believe that there's a secret Frankish order within the Holy Land. But I don't believe Al Mualim was once part of it. If what you say is true, he's using us."

De Sable leaned back. "Everybody is used by somebody," he said, as if it was only simple truth. "A fortunate man can choose who uses him and why. Your master uses you to kill and spread lies. We'll use you to spread peace-and we won't lie to you, either. Join us, and one day you'll see men everywhere living side by side in harmony."

"What if I refuse?"

"We'll set you free. But you'll not last long. You'll see I speak the truth when your master's minions sink their knives into your throat."

Kadar wondered if de Sable was mad. "I don't believe your lies," he said. "The _Franj_ have lied to us since they first sailed into Acre. You say that there's a secret order of men who fight for peace, but all I've seen so far is more _Franj_ knights and one dead man. That proves nothing."

"You should trust me." De Sable smiled. His face, like his body, seemed built more for war than peace. The smile looked strange on him. Take a leap of faith."

"Not for you."

"Your loyalty does you credit. A shame it's wasted."

"It's not." Kadar said through gritted teeth. He would have walked away from the insult, but he dared not move lest he show weakness. The fountain stood alone in the centre of a desert of cracked tiles. There was nothing Kadar could use to support himself. He knew that he could not stand without help.

De Sable shrugged. "Look, I don't expect to sway you with one speech.  I am a soldier and no silver-tongued diplomat. Only listen."

"Do I have a choice?" 

"Why not? Most men live their lives with stopped ears. Tell me what your master the Old Man sent you to steal."

"Don't you know?"

"Of course I know." De Sable's eyes were bright-too bright. The knight seemed possessed by some jovial demon. "But you don't. He keeps you in ignorance."

Kadar wondered if the knight was drunk. Although Robert had been drinking since his arrival in the garden, he appeared in complete command of his senses. "He sent us to steal the Ark of the Covenant."

"Don't be foolish," De Sable said dismissively. "The Ark is just a children's tale. The real treasure was within that chest- a powerful artefact. That's what your master wanted. The piece of Eden, that some name the very word of God. I believe it is the only thing that can bring an end to war and stop the Crusades." He grimaced. "As does that jackal Sinan."

"My _master_ -" Kadar put the emphasis on _master_ , to show de Sable that he was not persuaded, "-Al Mualim will use this Eden fragment wisely."

"I wish I had your faith in him. No man alone should wield such power. The Apple twists men's minds. That's why we kept it locked away." De Sable shifted, and Kadar tensed; but the _Franj_ only eased himself from the lip of the fountain. He settled himself down a hands-breadth closer to Kadar and grimaced. "An old wound." He gestured to Kadar's leg. "I'd wager yours will pain you much the same with time. Enough talk. You tire. I can see that. Can you walk?"

"I can walk."

"Then stand. I'll escort you to your room."

Kadar nodded. He pushed himself from the fountain and immediately stumbled. De Sable stood swiftly and caught him by the shoulder. He moved quietly for such a big man. Kadar wondered if the knight had been waiting in the courtyard for long. He wondered if the Templars had witnessed his faltering escape, and winced at the thought. The Templar's armour bit painfully into his hands.

De Sable snorted. "You can't stand without support. I told you that Assassins lie."

"So do _Franj_." Kadar gasped.

"Maybe." De Sable guided him towards the stairs. "But Templars speak the truth." He wound an arm around Kadar's waist and half helped, half-carried him up the stairs. There were two flights, and both flights were steep. By the time de Sable used his boot to open the door Kadar was bathed in a cold sweat. He was relieved that the cot was raised in Western style rather than on the floor in Syrian fashion. He didn’t have far to fall.

De Sable deposited Kadar on the bed and stepped back. His head nearly touched the ceiling. Kadar leaned back against the wall. Plastered stone supported him. He felt sick.

 The _Franj_ lied. Templars lied-he was sure of it.

But he was not so sure that Al Mualim told the truth.

"I'll send my steward to tend your wounds," de Sable said. "Garnier has left us for his hospital in Acre, but there are still some doctors here among us."

"I'd prefer to attend myself." Kadar said.  Assassins knew how to bind wounds. He wasn't sure that his injury was within his capability to treat, but he had had enough of strangers touching him.

Robert nodded. "To bring dressings, then and water," he said. "No doubt you have some skill in medicine."

Kadar was too tired to argue. He nodded and leaned back as the door swung closed behind Robert. Moments later he heard a key turn in the lock, then Robert's footsteps, quiet for a man in mail, padding down the hall.

Kadar slumped down onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. His knee throbbed. He ran cautious fingers over the dressing, wincing at the smell. He'd be lucky to keep his leg. He could feel no broken bones beneath the wrappings, but the sinews that knotted bones together like rope could be just as hard to splice once broken.

The old Assassins had a saying: _When the knife reaches bone, your life must change_.

Kadar's leg might heal in time, but it would never be as strong as it had once been.

Much like his faith in Al Mualim.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Kadar had sunk towards sleep by the time he heard the key turn once again. A couple of thuds that might have been meant as a knock rattled the hinges.  Kadar, still drowsy, had no time to object before a small man with limp yellow hair edged the door open with his hip and knelt to deposit on the floorboards a bowl of steaming water, a jar of salve and a heap of clean linen bandages, carefully rolled. The water slopped onto the wood as he slammed the bowl down, and the edge of the bowl chimed against the jar of ointment and left a chip.

"Against my will," he said in a voice that sounded very strange to Kadar's ears, "I am sent to help you dress your wound."

"You're Robert's steward?"

The _Franj_ inclined his head. "I have that honour," he said. He was Kadar's height, with curiously narrow shoulders atop a stocky frame. His chin was pointed, his forehead broad, and his eyes blue and deeply set, like chips of ice. His voice was unusually light. He bent to unfasten the rag that covered the salve. As a scent strong as the dyers' quarter in midsummer filled the air, Kadar saw what Robert's steward hid within plain sight. 

"You're a woman," he said stupidly.

She rolled her eyes. "I see your eyes work better than your leg. That looks nasty. You should let me-"

"No!" Kadar said sharply as she reached towards him. The Assassins were monks in all but name. The Creed was silent on the subject of women, but custom disapproved of a man and an unrelated woman touching except in certain circumstances, of which this was not one. "I'll do it myself."

"As you wish," she said.

As Kadar fumbled with the bandages he wondered if the woman was a deliberate insult or an accidental one. His fingers were stiff and the knot was tight, pulled tighter no doubt in his fall. The woman watched him pick and struggle for a few moments before she pulled a knife from her belt and handed it to him.

"My name's Maria," she said, extending her hand with the palm open.

Kadar knew enough about the _Franj_ to recognize the gesture as one of friendship. He settled his fingers around the cord-wrapped hilt of the knife and watched her as she came towards him, wondering if he should take the dagger and bury it in her throat. She was only a woman. Yet she moved as if she was comfortable with her body, and beneath her curves lurked the calluses and muscles of a trained fighter. Her thighs were nearly as broad as de Sable's, and he was a giant of a man.

The Assassins did not kill women or innocent men. This woman was a Templar, yet she had shown him no threat. She had come to aid him-against her will, maybe, but she had come to help him nonetheless.

Kadar took Maria's hand.

"Kadar," he said.

As she clasped his palm briefly he noticed that she wore a heavy signet ring stamped with the Templar cross. Then he reversed the blade and began to saw at the knot. The knife she had given him was sharp. The knot unfurled below the blade and the bandages beneath split like the layers of an onion.

Kadar's injuries were worse than he had feared.

His leg was pale and thin from days of bandaging and enforced rest. A livid purple sword-slash crossed his thigh above the knee. The wound had missed the great vessels by a small margin. The scab cracked painfully as Kadar tensed his muscles. The cut was deep, but it would heal.

His knee was another matter. He could bend his leg with difficulty if he placed one hand above and one below the joint, but it gave as soon as he put weight on it. Kadar recognised the signs. He'd ripped the cords that bound his knee in place. It was a common enough injury amongst older Assassins.

"Looks bad," the Templar woman said.

Kadar looked up. Absorbed with cataloguing the extent of his injuries, he'd forgotten about Maria until that moment. Now he realised he was half-naked in front of a foreign woman.

"Shall I aid you?" she asked.

"No!"

 She seemed genuinely concerned. Kadar realised that her insult was likely not intentional. "It's not permitted for a woman to touch a man who's not of her family. You shouldn't even be here alone."

She looked amused. "Is this your Creed?"

"No. It's custom."

She shrugged. "I've lived with men for years as one of them-and as a woman too. Unless it's true that Assassins really are damned souls sent by the Devil from Hell itself, you're unlikely to have anything I haven't seen before."

"It's complicated," Kadar said weakly. He was relieved when she turned her back. Without looking at him, she picked up the bowl and handed it to him with a wad of rags.

"Serve yourself, then. But your work would be much easier if you'd allow me to help."

"Not necessary." Kadar said. He worked the damp rags around his wounds. Dirt and sweat soaked the padding. The warm water felt like a caress. "Besides, you said you aided me against your will. My thanks, regardless."

She held out her hand for the soiled rags and replaced them with fresh. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"You haven't tried to kill me."

Kadar recalled his hesitation, and felt ashamed. "I considered it," he said, reflected that Altaïr would not have hesitated to wield the blade; then felt ashamed all over again for different reasons.

"As would I in your place. I don't like the Assassins. You've cost us far too much. But I don't believe everything they say about you either." She took the scraps again and handed him the jar of salve. "You're just men, like any other."

"Not like _any_ other," Kadar said. He put the salve down. "The bandages, please?"

"True. You have certain skills." She handed him the dressings, neatly coiled. "Robert knows that. That's why I'm here. He knows a man's worth isn't in his birth or between the fork of his legs. It's in his heart and in his mind. But men are easily misled. They need a worthy cause to fight for."

Kadar wrapped the bandages around his leg. "I have a cause."

"You had a cause," she corrected.

"I had a brother." The words escaped Kadar's mouth before he could stop them. He had no wish to unveil his private grief before this infidel woman. Malik deserved more than that. Assassins did not mourn.

"Dead?" she asked.

He nodded. "In the Temple."

"Then Templar blades in Templar hands struck the blow. I'm sorry for that. But it was your master's treachery that killed him."

"So you say."

"So I know," she said.

"Your master said the same." He recalled de Sable's adamant belief. "I need proof."

"If we provide it?"

The thought was like a blade to Kadar's heart. He knotted the bandages across his leg with more force than he intended. "If you speak the truth, my master has betrayed my Creed, my brothers and my Order.  I have nothing left to fight for." 

She turned. Kadar was decently covered by then, and he found that he did not mind her direct gaze as much as he once had. She held his eyes like a man as she asked him "Can you walk?"

Kadar opened his mouth to agree before he remembered the painful and humiliating journey up the stairs. "How far?"

"Not far."

"Would you bring me a cane?" Kadar asked. He had found being hoisted up the steps by de Sable humiliating enough. He had no wish to lean upon a woman's shoulders.

"Yes." she said, "Wait here." And she slipped out and left the door unlocked behind her. Kadar waited. If she spoke the truth, he had nowhere to go. If she lied, he had no chance against the guards. He was bruised in heart and body. He had no energy to resist.

Maria returned in moments. She carried a short staff of ash with a leather thong for a handle. Kadar took the staff and limped haltingly to the door. The staff was a serviceable weapon. No doubt Altaïr would have used it to break Maria's neck, defeat a horde of guards and escape across the walls, bringing word of the Templar plot to Al Mualim in his tower. But Kadar was no Altaïr. He was not sure that he believed in Al Mualim. 

Maria led him down a long narrow hall lined by doors. She walked ahead; back straight and chin raised, although she paused occasionally to glance over her shoulder and check Kadar still followed. She knocked upon a door carved identically to all the rest. De Sable's hoarse voice bid them enter, and Maria held the door open. Kadar limped through.

 The room inside would have been spacious were it not for row upon row of shelves, all crammed with books. There were more books than Kadar had seen in any place save for Al Mualim's library; enough books to ransom any king that he could name. Papers were strewn everywhere with profligate abandon. The room smelled of dry parchment. Fragments of cotton, hide and paper floated in the air and caught in Kadar's throat.

A narrow passage led between the shelves to a table backed by a carved _mashrabiya_ screen. The window behind looked out over the city. Kadar saw the pillar of a minaret against the sky, and the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders in the dim light.

De Sable did not seem surprised by their sudden arrival. He replaced his pen on an ink-stand and wiped his hands upon a cloth. "So," he said. "Assassin. Are you ready for the truth?" 

Kadar nodded. "My master told us we should seek wisdom," he said, "even to the ends of the earth."

"A lesson he was not perhaps wise to teach you," De Sable said. "Can you read?"

Kadar nodded.

"Would you recognise your master's hand?"

"I'd know it anywhere."

"And his private seal?"

"It never leaves his side."

"Good." De Sable crooked his finger. Maria left Kadar's side to stand at de Sable's right elbow. She stood straight as any cupbearer as de Sable passed her a letter.

"A letter from your master to my predecessor," he said as Maria handed the letter to Kadar.

Kadar unfolded the message. The paper was old and the ink had yellowed with age. He recognised Al Mualim's script, though the handwriting was more vigorous than he remembered.

_Brother,_

_I have thought long and hard since our last meeting. Many paths stretch out before us. Some are straight, others high and perilous. I see in each a different direction for our great Order. We must not falter on the road. We must do what is needful, despite the cost._

_You have your warrior knights, my brother. I shall found a brotherhood of my own- skilled men, dedicated to our cause. They shall wield their blades as a surgeon wields his scalpel- to cut out the corruption and save this fair land._

_No doubt some may die in the attempt. But if the deaths of a few men may save a thousand more, it seems a small price to pay._

_May the Father of Understanding guide you._

_Rashid ad-din Sinan, whom men name 'Al Mualim'_.

Kadar read Al Mualim's name with a sinking heart. He looked up at Robert, who searched among the papers on his desk and produced a second letter, which he handed to Maria.

"Your master sent me this message on the day I was named Grand Master of the Order," he said as Maria passed the letter to Kadar.

This message was newer. The paper was far less fragile, and the ink smelt of iron-filings and gall.

_Brother,_

_Congratulations on this, the day of your ascension to our Order._

_I hear that you are a martial man, famed for acts of war. If I might give you one scrap of advice let it be this; seek wisdom wherever you may find it. Devote yourself not just to struggle but to unceasing study. But beware, for with great wisdom, comes much sorrow._

_May the Father of Understanding guide you._

_Rashid ad-din Sinan, 'Al Mualim'._

The message slipped from Kadar's hands and drifted to the floor. Maria darted from behind the table and retrieved it. Kadar caught the edge of the desk as Robert handed him a third letter.

"Your master sent this letter when I accused him of betrayal," he said.

Kadar turned the paper over.  He recognised the hand, and the seal stamped in red wax beside the signature.

_Brother,_

_(For I shall still call you Brother, despite your insult)_

_I have sacrificed all on the altar of this order, and you accuse me of betrayal?_

_I shall forgive you, this once. Should more accusations be forthcoming, I will not hesitate to use all the forces at my disposal._

_Did I not wish you well then the dagger which accompanies this letter would even now be planted in your heart._

_May the Father of Understanding guide you, for you have surely lost your way._

_Al Mualim_

De Sable leaned over the desk and placed a dagger on the table. The Assassin's sigil was stamped upon the blade. It was unmistakeably of Masyaf make.  "This was the knife he sent," he said. "I see you recognise the blade."

"Knives may be purchased," Kadar said desperately. "And letters can be forged."

De Sable waved his hand. "I have a hall of correspondence like it," he said."Do you believe I speak the truth?"

Kadar did not trust his voice. He nodded.

I'll _kill Al Mualim for the pain he's brought upon me_ , he thought. _His life, in exchange for my brother's-it is only fair. I'll bring his castle down around his ears._

De Sable said "Tell me of the Assassins,"

Kadar obeyed.


	4. Chapter 4

Kadar spilled Assassin secrets till his voice was hoarse. The muezzin called three times before he was done.

De Sable did not seem surprised by what he heard. He acted like he knew most of the information already. Maria copied some parts of Kadar's speech. Kadar tried to remember which parts in order to discover just how much the Templars knew, but his thoughts fled like mice. He no longer knew why he gathered the information. Was it for the Assassins? The Templars? Himself?

"My thanks," de Sable said to Kadar when his voice faded.

Kadar swayed. He felt as if the foundations of the world had moved beneath his feet. The pain in his leg had passed into bitter numbness.

De Sable snapped his fingers. "Maria, a chair."

Maria brought Kadar a Frankish lord's chair with arms and a back. The seat was far higher than the cushions Arabs used. Kadar was grateful for the courtesy. It was not so far for him to fall. He stretched his injured leg out in front of him and tried to relax.

"Your master stole a valuable artefact from the Order," de Sable said once Kadar was settled. "As you slept, I laid siege to Masyaf to retrieve it. While I was there Sinan commanded three men to leap from the battlements to prove to me that his men do not fear death."

So the Assassins had succeeded. Kadar was not sure how he felt about that. "The leap of faith?" he asked, to cover his hesitation.

De Sable's eyes narrowed. "So he named it."

"It's a trick," Kadar said. He'd given up so many Assassin secrets. What was the harm in just one more?

"I guessed as much. No commander would spend his men's lives so easily." De Sable looked up and fixed Kadar with his strange blue eyes. "And Sinan must have been a good commander, for a time, or you would not have followed him."

Despite himself Kadar felt a rush of pleasure at the compliment. "A siege?" he asked. Sieges were usually long and always bloody. The Templars had returned from Masyaf far faster than he would have expected. He wondered what had gone wrong. "What happened?"

"Suffice to say I failed," de Sable said. "But that is a story for another time. There's more yet to this tale. When I returned to Jerusalem I heard news of a far more troubling sort. Sinan's hound has slain three men in as many weeks-Franks and Syrians both, and Templars all. Killed by a single man in three different cities. At first I did not credit rumour, but then-" He reached into his tunic and withdrew three feathers stained with blood. "We recovered these from the bodies."

He held the feathers out to Kadar. Kadar stroked the quills through his fingers. The barbs were stiff with gore.

"Who died?" he asked.

De Sable lifted the dagger Al Mualim had sent him from the table and tested the blade with his thumb. "The bastard slew Tamir in his own souk in Damascus. Talal was a trader in this very city. A good man, who sought to save Jerusalem's poor! He was killed a week later. And my good friend Garnier was murdered a day after returning to his hospital in Acre. He did us great service." He gestured to Kadar's bandaged leg. "Garnier healed anyone in need. He should not have died in such a way."

Kadar could not take his eyes from the dagger. The blacksmiths of Masyaf were skilled. Kadar knew that the knife's edge would be sharp as winter air. He did not think he had the energy to resist if de Sable decided to sink the blade into his heart. "Was Garnier the doctor who tended me when first I woke?"

"The very same," Robert confirmed. "Three of my friends have died. Four, in fact. Masun, a loyal Templar, was murdered in Masyaf as he preached against Sinan's monstrosities." He cursed and hacked splinters from the table with the tip of the Assassin dagger. "Each man I question swears there was nothing they could do to stop the devil's blade. They say he moves silently and strikes without mercy. Do you know his name?"

Kadar nodded. "Altaïr," he said. The name left his lips like a final betrayal.

Robert laid down the knife. "So the demon has a name," he said. "Who is he?"

"A master Assassin," Kadar said. "But he is and has always been Al Mualim's creature."

"Does he know his master lies?"

"I doubt it," Kadar said. He had never once heard Altaïr question Al Mualim's teachings. "You should tell him."

"Do you think we haven't tried?  The Assassin will not listen. I cannot afford to spend more men's lives merely to open his eyes to his master's folly. My men say that he's a beast from hell. They say he needs no rest, no drink but blood and no meat but human flesh. What do you think of that?"

Kadar thought that it was nonsense. "He's but a man."

"Then our swords will no doubt prove equal to the task," Maria said. She reached for the dagger and closed her right hand around the hilt. With a grunt of effort she buried the blade deep in the table. 

"Move carefully," Kadar warned. Maria was a strange and unfeminine woman, but she had been kind to him and he had no wish to see her dead. "Altaïr is very skilled."

"If the Assassin is a man then we can stop him," Robert said practically. "Can you tell us where he is?

Kadar's eyes flicked from the dagger to Robert. The Templar's gaze was nearly as sharp as the blade. "I can't find him for you," he said. "But I can tell you where to look. Each city has an Assassin base-a bureau. Assassins use them to rest and to prepare for missions. The Bureaus change frequently, so they'll be strange to me as well. But I can help you find them."

Robert scratched his chin. Kadar heard his blunt fingers scrape through stubble. "A hunter lies in wait," he said. "He'll catch nothing if he chases after his prey. We can use the Bureau to trap the Assassin. It's not a bad idea."

"I have one better," said Maria. She raised her hand from the pommel of her sword and pointed to Kadar. "Why can't you walk around the city until you meet one of your brothers, then find some excuse to have him take you to the Bureau?"

"Maria, he can hardly walk," Robert said dryly. "Besides, he must prove his loyalty before we let him roam. But I have an idea about that." He held out his hand, palm open, to Kadar. His eyes were extraordinarily blue. "Will you join us?"

Kadar was transfixed. "Yes."

 Robert smiled. "Good," he said, and took Kadar's hand in his with the confident arrogance that had reminded Kadar of Altaïr.

Kadar's heart raced at the touch of de Sable's skin. His breath quickened. He felt as if he stood upon a narrow ledge, saved from the brink by a finger's width of earth beneath his boots. In that moment, he would have told Robert everything. He would have leapt from a tower. He would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

His newfound certainty faded with seconds as Robert released his hand.

 He had broken the Creed; betrayed his brothers to the Templars. If the Templars spoke the truth, Al Mualim would kill him without hesitation. If they lied, his life was forfeit for his crimes. He was a dead man either way.

_If I can avenge my brother before I die,_ he thought, _will that make my death worthwhile_?

He had long passed the point where he could leave without consequences. The Templars offered a straight path out of the caliph's maze his life had become. Kadar was not sure if it was a route that he should take. He was smart enough to realize he had few other choices.

De Sable watched him shrewdly. "Having second thoughts?" he asked.

"I have betrayed my brotherhood," Kadar said honestly. He held out his left hand, fingers spread wide, to show de Sable his missing ring finger. "If what you say is true, Al MuaIim betrayed me first. It makes my choice no easier."

"A hard choice," Robert said, "but the right one," Robert said. "A vow based upon lies is no vow worth keeping."

"So you say. Assassins take their oaths seriously."

"I know," said Robert. "And that is why I'm asking you to join the Templars."

Maria gave de Sable a sharp glance. "My lord, is that wise?"

De Sable ignored her. "The Templars have no oath," he said. "No indoctrination, no ceremony. You must only recognise the world as it truly is; a dark and dangerous place. Work with us to do what we must to put it right." He pulled a heavy ring from his right hand and offered it to Kadar. "Join the Templars."

Kadar reached out and took the ring. Its weight surprised him. He turned the jewel over in his hands and saw a flared Templar cross etched upon the bezel.

He slid the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand, where it balanced out the missing finger on his left.  His hand felt unusually heavy, but the weight of the jewel was far lighter than the oath the ring implied. He looked up, and met de Sable's eyes.

Robert smiled. His face was suited more for war than peace, and the smile looked strange on him. "Welcome to the Order," he said.

Kadar nodded. He could not bring himself to smile. The ring fit loosely on his finger. He flicked it with his thumbnail and watched the Templar cross slide from his view. "What would you have me do?"

"Stay." De Sable said. "Your wounds will heal with time, and the resources of the Templars are at your disposal. Your first assignment is to find the Bureau of Jerusalem." He turned to Maria, who regarded Kadar with silent disapproval. "Maria will help you."

Maria nodded reluctantly.  

"How would you proceed?" Robert asked.

Kadar conceived and discarded a dozen ideas in the space of as many heartbeats. The pain in his leg pulsed steadily, distracting him. He cast his eyes around the shelves for desperate inspiration and saw a large atlas open on the desk.

_Find the Bureau_ , he thought, _find the Assassin_.

Surely the reverse was also true?

"Do you have sheets of paper?" he asked Maria. "As large as you can find."

Her lips tightened. Paper was smooth and far less changeable than parchment, but it was rare and consequently expensive. "What for?"

"I want to draw a map," he said.

Maria frowned. "How is a map going to help us find the Bureau?"

"If I can make a map of the city," Kadar explained, "I can use it to mark every Assassin sighting. The closer we get to the Bureau, the more sightings there will be. It's one of the methods we use to track our targets."

Maria reached for a shelf and withdrew a thick book hinged between wooden covers in the Frankish style. "We have maps," she said as she flicked the book open to a page and held it out. "This is the Madaba map of Jerusalem. It's a drawing of a mosaic on the floor of a church in Byzantium. It was made five hundred years ago."

Kadar's retort died unspoken as he realised Maria was serious. "A map five hundred years old will not help us now," he said.

She slammed the atlas shut. Dust rose from its pages. "You asked. I merely delivered."

"Maria, peace." Robert said. He looked up at Kadar. "Do you think that this will help? It may be time we cannot spare."

Kadar nodded, though he was far from certain. He had never been a dedicated student. Malik had been the scholar. He gestured to his leg. "I cannot even walk. How else can I prove my loyalty?"

Besides, he thought, the Assassins already had maps of Jerusalem. Drawing a map was hardly a traitorous activity.

"The Assassins are murderers, not mapmakers! What does he know of maps?"

"My masters taught me that if you mean to kill a man you must first find him." Kadar told her. He took a stub of charcoal and a scrap of paper from de Sable's desk and tried to explain. "From the top of a tower you can see the city spread out beneath you like a cloak. We merely transfer that view upon paper. Every building-every street-is shown distinctly from its neighbours-"

 He did his best to explain. It was hard work. Frankish maps made Jerusalem the centre of the world-but the _Franj_ had no tradition of city maps at all. They thought a man who did not know the layout of a strange city was a man that shouldn't have been there to begin with.

Robert listened tolerantly. Maria scowled and tapped her foot on the flagstones. Occasionally she made acerbic comments. She seemed intent on interpreting Kadar's plan as a scheme to betray the Templars to the Assassins, rather than the other way around. Kadar listened to his own explanation with despair. He did not think he sounded at all convincing.  

"You may draw your map," Robert said when Kadar was finished. "Maria, you will aid him."

"I have tasks-" she protested.

"More worthy tasks than hunting this Assassin?"

Maria hesitated. "No," she said.

"Then it is my will that you aid Kadar. His map seems simple enough."


	5. Chapter 5

The map was not simple at all.

Kadar discarded a dozen drafts within the first week before he found a survey method that worked to his satisfaction. Maria walked the streets in body, and Kadar walked them in his mind's eye. The Templar woman was observant and thorough. She made a good assistant, and a better one once her interest in the work began to overwhelm her suspicions of Kadar. At first Kadar used a servant to verify her information, but she was always right, and eventually he grew to trust her.

Kadar worked through the summer. His hands grew smooth, his robes ink-stained. He grew to know Jerusalem well. The work reminded him of anatomy classes in Masyaf: the walls encircling the body like skin; the small alleys that merged and split like veins, the bazaars and souks where money changed hands for goods like breath within the lungs and the Temple Mount like the city's great beating heart.   

Kadar worked in Robert's study every day. At night he walked the city in his sleep. His map grew slowly. It was primitive by Assassin standards; a work of art by Templar ones. Each stroke of ink, each street, each square, felt like the bars of a cage he built himself.

The work went some way towards filling the void left by the loss of his brother and his Order.

It was not nearly enough. 

In kinder days Kadar would have taken to the roofs to run off his frustration in a cloud of sweat and dust. No longer. Any gait faster than a walk pained him. Time and the Templar doctor had been kind to him, but he still walked with a limp. Perhaps he always would.

He had returned to his room one evening to sit by the window with his elbows on the sill and watch the setting sun sink behind Jerusalem's walls when he noticed movement down in the courtyard garden. The garden was a pitiful thing by Arab standards. No trace of elegance remained. The fountain was dry, the pots and beds empty; the tiles chipped.  It was a garden in nothing save its name, and Kadar seldom went there.

He heard the chime of mail before he saw De Sable step into the courtyard with a bared blade in his hand. Honey light gleamed from the naked steel. The knight wore full armour; gauntlets; greaves; a breastplate curved like the keel of a boat and etched with the Templar cross by smiths thousands of leagues away. He lacked only his helm.

Kadar leaned out and saw a man in similar attire follow Robert into the courtyard. The Templar drew his sword and tossed away the scabbard. His eyes were bright, his back straight. He was clearly anticipating the fight. His opponent was more restless. He fussed at the straps of his armour and sweated in the afternoon sun, raising one mailed hand to wipe the sweat away. A servant hurried over with a cloth. A second page brought two bucket-shaped helms.  

Kadar watched as both men took the helms and jammed then down upon their shaven heads. A page cried out. Both men moved into position. The fight began with a second cry.

Kadar had seen Frankish knights in battle, but he had never seen then train. The Assassins armoured themselves as lightly as they could, allowing fast movement in the punishing heat. The Templars did the opposite. The knights were solid as rocks and as immovable as cliffs. They pounded at each other as if they chopped kindling. Metal screamed and grated as their heavy swords clashed. The fighters pushed this way and that, each seemingly unable to gain an advantage.

Kadar winced. A single blow from such a blade could split a man in half. Assassins were taught how to evade such blows, and how to deflect them if they couldn't. Kadar had managed neither. He'd been lucky to escape with his life.

He watched the fighter, cataloguing out of habit the few gaps in their armour where one might insert a knife. The Assassins taught that even a well armoured man might be unseamed in such a way-provided one stayed alive long enough to try.  

De Sable was easily distinguished by his great height. Kadar did not recognise his opponent, and had no particular interest in him. De Sable, on the other hand, had remained as Kadar's sponsor, supporting him despite-or perhaps because of-his Assassin heritage. He showed great interest in Kadar's maps. The evening light often found De Sable in Kadar's study, where he would admire Kadar's progress and drink wine that Kadar never shared. Maria had told him that the words De Sable meant 'sand' in some Frankish tongue. Like sand, de Sable had a habit of being hard to nail down. He was a man of action, always moving, and he never stayed for long.

Kadar saw swiftly that De Sable would win the match. The knight knew how to fight, and how to wait, how to goad his opponent into some over-hasty or poorly executed move. He moved like rocks, each movement slow yet somehow connected to the first until the force of the whole came crashing down inexorably as a landslide in the mountains.

Kadar watched as de Sable struck again. He heard metal crunch beneath the force of the blow as De Sable's sword connected with his opponent's heavy plate armour. When De Sable's opponent made to retaliate, his sword fell stiffly from his hand. Kadar saw that De Sable's blow had crushed the joint in such a way that the knight could no longer extend his arm. De Sable, rocklike no longer, moved like a snake as he kicked the sword away and levelled his own blade at the unprotected eye-slit of his opponent's helm.

"Yield!"

De Sable's opponent gave way with good grace. They sat heavily on the rim of the fountain and laughed together, recounting the moves of the fight with gestures as they called for a page to unbuckle their armour. Kadar had expected that the heavy mail would take a long time to remove, but the process was accomplished in seconds. Servants carried the armour away for cleaning as a page offered the fighters a pitcher of water.

De Sable waved the servant aside. The page handed the jug to de Sable's opponent, who drank thirstily. He wiped the rim with his sleeve before handing the jug to Robert, who took the pitcher, raised it above his head, and poured it over his body. Water darkened the dust at the base of the fountain and slicked De Sable's skin. He shook his head like a dog, scattering droplets everywhere, and ran his hands through his stubbly hair. Kadar heard the scratch of his fingers against skin.

He could not tear his eyes away.

 _Oh_ , he thought, then; _yes_.

His desire seemed inevitable, as if he had spent all season laying sticks for a fire without considering his actions and watched the stacked wood flame into life at the first touch of a spark.

Kadar felt his pulse leap in his throat. His breathing quickened until he felt as if he would choke and he became very aware of his body. He watched as water darkened Robert's sweat-stained linen shirt.  Shadows carved the Templar's body and highlighted every muscle. His exposed skin was pale and marked with hundreds of tawny freckles.

Kadar blushed. He quickly glanced away as he realised that his thoughts must be apparent to any person watching.  He did not dare look down again in case Robert or his companion caught sight of him. He rose from the window in so much haste that he almost fell.

A fitful fever burned his skin. He clenched his fists and felt the ring Robert had given him imprint his flesh. He tightened his grip until the metal cut into his finger and red light pulsed behind his eyelids.

He could not run. But he could lose himself in work.

Trembling, Kadar headed for his study. His map was spread out on the table in the centre of the room. Its curling margins were weighted by heavy tomes and pinned in place by knife-blades.  The plan was not quite finished, but it would do. Kadar would wait no longer. He was in the mood for grand and foolish gestures, and if one would not suffice, another would have to do.

He opened the box where he kept his pens and selected a stylus. Then he cracked a bottle of scarlet ink, lit the lamps and reached for a sheaf of paper. He cross-checked each note carefully as he plotted Assassin sightings over the map of Jerusalem in a spray of marks like drops of blood.

The work drew him in, engulfed him, and Kadar lost himself in the carefully drawn streets. He came to himself with a start a short time before the midnight hour, when the last lamp guttered out and plunged the room in darkness so complete that Kadar could no longer see his pen. He scrambled for a lamp and refilled the dish from the jar of oil he had used as a paperweight.

_The Bureau. It's there. It has to be._

Kadar lit the lamp and held it high. The bloody spots of Assassin sightings were scattered around the city. A broad stain of scarlet ink spread across a few blocks in the rich quarter of Jerusalem, like an accusing bloody handprint on a linen robe.

He closed his eyes and imagined that the lamp's warmth upon his face was the sun. He walked in his mind through twisting alleys lined with shops and covered by wooden grilles to keep out sun and rain. Faceless shoppers brushed past him. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air. Kadar walked past sellers of silks and straw mats to the door of a nondescript shop. In his mind's eye he saw a familiar curved capital _A_ scratched onto the door.

He opened the door onto the Assassin's bureau. The _rafiq_ stood behind the counter, his pen scratching upon parchment. He looked up as Kadar entered, and Kadar felt a shock of surprise as he saw the _rafiq_ 's face-

A heavy knock sounded upon the door. Kadar's eyes flew open. His city of memories vanished as de Sable swung the door open wide. The Templar had removed his mail, and the belt at his waist held no scabbard. His shirt had dried in the fierce summer heat, but there were water-stains along the seams.

"You keep late hours," he said.

Kadar shrugged. He felt his cheeks heat again, and hoped the room was too dark for Robert to notice.

De Sable stepped inside and edge the door closed with his foot. "So is this it?" he said eagerly. "Are you done?"

"So this is it? Are you done?" De Sable reached out and smoothed his hand across the paper. He jerked his hand back as the paint smeared.

Kadar nodded. "Nearly." He ran a shaking hand through his hair, which was growing out from a soldier's crop and just long enough to be annoying. He passed the Crusader a rag to clean his hands and brushed de Sable's palm with the tip of one finger as their hands touched. Even that small contact sent a crackle of tension racing through his skin.

"This is how the Assassins track their prey?" De Sable wiped ink from his knuckles.

Kadar nodded. "One way."

"The Bureau, then, is somewhere within that splash of sightings."

"It will be marked somehow. I am sure of it."

De Sable nodded. He gazed at the map as if planning a siege. Kadar felt his stomach clench at the thought. The Templars took attacks on their Order very seriously. Seven of their number had lost their lives to Altaïr's blade in the past few months alone. The Templars were out for blood, and they would certainly kill any Assassins that they found.

 _But then_ , he thought, _they did not kill me_.

"You've done well," De Sable observed.

Kadar did not know what to say. He licked his lips, though his mouth felt as dry as the desert. His left hand found the Templar ring on his right hand, twisting the jewel nervously. "It will be useful for more than just this mission," he said hoarsely.

"You may be right," De Sable said. He moved closer to peer at the map. His hip touched Kadar's side, and he felt the long muscles of the Crusader's thigh tense as he stepped forward. "You've done us great service, and proved your loyalty." He stepped forwards to embrace Kadar, but Kadar saw the gesture coming and stepped away so that Robert came up hard against the edge of the table. He could not, he knew, allow himself to be touched. He'd doused the fire beneath his ribs with labour, but the embers of desire still smouldered.

 "Thank you for allowing me to demonstrate my loyalty, _sayyid,_ " he said.

"You've proved yourself a good Templar and an asset to our Order," Robert said. "Templars come from many places. For all that I am now Grand Master of the Templars, I had not even joined the Brotherhood when the old Grand Master died. Anyone can rise. Even women. Even you."

Kadar had not thought much further beyond finishing his map. He swallowed. "I thank you, lord."

Robert shrugged easily. "You should expect some resistance. Our Order has many reasons to hate the Assassins. I have a feeling that this is only the first of some great services you shall perform for us. Prove those who doubt you wrong with your successes. After all, no man is beyond redemption." He shrugged again. "Even I."

"I-"Kadar hesitated. "What do you mean?"

Robert did not answer. He took something from the waistband of his shirt and laid it on the table. Oiled steel and leather gleamed in the lamplight as Kadar recognised his hidden blade. He instinctively moved to take the weapon, then jerked his hand away, fearing a trick.

Robert nodded. "It is yours."

"It's an Assassin's weapon." Kadar said. His left hand itched to lift the weapon, to feel the reassuring stiffness of the leather and fell once more the click of the hidden blade beneath sliding out to drink its fill of blood.

"Take it." Robert pushed the roll of leather and metal towards Kadar. "You can use it in the service of the Templars."

"I-"

"Do you serve?"

Kadar nodded. He moved to touch the blade, but de Sable captured his hand. The fine hairs on the back of his arm gleamed golden in the lamplight.

"Let me welcome you to the Templars," De Sable said and embraced him.

Kadar went to push him away, but he could not. He could feel the heat of Robert's body through the coarse weave of the linen shirt he wore. He inhaled the odour of sweat and musk that clung to his skin beneath the scent of garlic from the strange meals the Franks favoured. 

"Do you serve?" De Sable asked Kadar softly as his arms closed around Kadar's back.

"I will," he said, and followed Robert to his bed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

"Well," said a voice from the courtyard, "that's one way to give it to the Assassins."

Kadar flushed. He listened for the reply despite himself, but the response was lost behind a chorus of shouting as a trader passed by outside, hoping to sell old clothes.

_It's probably just as well._

He sighed and turned back to add the finishing touches to his map. A breeze gusted through the carved window grilles and tugged at the paper. Kadar felt as restless as the wind. He longed to climb a tower and feel the wind pulling at his hair and the sun's heat on his shoulders, to see the rows of cedar and orange and lemon trees outside the city walls. Maybe that would give him the perspective he craved.

He rested his elbows on the table and spread his palm over the red spot marked upon the map. His leg ached sullenly, a dull pain that never completely left him, more irksome than usual after the previous evening's exertion. The spots of ink reminded Kadar of the freckles that marked Robert's body. He blushed.

 He was still mulling over the events of the previous night when the door opened and a Templar guard pushed his way into the room. The guard's face was pallid and red in patches. His blotched complexion marked him as a recent arrival from the war lands to the west before he even opened his mouth for Kadar to hear his atrociously accented Arabic.

"You're wanted," he said. "There's a meeting."

Kadar did not waste time with courtesies. He replaced his pen in its painted box and scattered a handful of sand across the map to dry the ink before he rolled the parchment into a tight cylinder and secured the roll with a scrap of scarlet cloth. "What about?" he asked as he followed the guard down the narrow stairs outside.

"I can't tell you."

Kadar doubted the guard knew himself. He shrugged, wincing a little at the sour odour that wafted from the guard's stained tunic as they wended their way down towards the room the Templars called the Great Hall.  

The house the Templars had appropriated after their expulsion from their namesake Temple was a traditional Arab household. The dilapidated courtyard had once been the house's heart. The hall had been a large reception room, designed for entertaining guests in comfort whilst keeping the household sacrosanct.  The Templars had whitewashed over the wall paintings, but the graceful shapes of scrolls and weaving foliage were still visible beneath the cheap white paint and the small windows had been heavily barred. The only furniture in the room was a long table surrounded by twelve high wooden chairs. Seven of the chairs were occupied. Five were empty.

Robert de Sable sat at the head of the table. He looked up as Kadar entered with his escort, smiled, and gestured him to a seat at his left hand. Kadar skirted the other Templars as he moved to take his seat, feeling rather like a hound puppy introduced to a company of mastiffs.

He need not have worried. Most of the other Templars ignored him, although one man-a tall dark-haired merchant –glared at him suspiciously as he pulled out the chair and sat down. The tall chair did nothing to make Kadar feel at ease. Like most Arabs, he found the Western habit of perching on high chairs both awkward and uncomfortable. He would have preferred a cushion.

He shifted in his seat and looked around.  Of the seven men seated, three were westerners and four Arabs, their skin the same shade as Kadar's own. The resemblance did little to make him feel at ease. Saladin's armies held the Assassins in as much contempt as the Crusaders did. Three out of the four Levantines carried on a conversation amongst themselves. The fourth-the suspicious merchant-toyed with his water glass and avoided Kadar's eyes. De Sable was deep in conversation with another Franj knight.

There was little enough in the room to capture Kadar's attention. The furnishings were sparse. There was no decorations save for the hastily-covered wall paintings and a long red cloth that ran down the centre of the trestle table. The silk reminded Kadar of the scarlet ink that daubed his map. He raised his eyes from the table and met Robert's gaze. 

De Sable smiled slightly. "Kadar," he said as calmly as if they had spent the previous night in prayer rather than pleasure. "Welcome. Is the map ready?"

Kadar liked the exotic phrasing of his name, so sibilant and strange in the Crusader's harsh foreign tongue. "Yes. But-"

He broke off as the door swung open, slamming into the wall so hard the handle cracked off a large chip of white paint. A curling leaf poked out from under the whitewash as if through melting snow as Maria brushed into the room without bothering to apologise.

"My lady," Robert bowed from a sitting position. Kadar nodded. A few of the other Templars followed suit.

"Robert, Kadar, my lords," she said. "I regret that I am late. I came as soon as I heard." She hooked the toe of her boot under the legs of the closest empty chair and sat down at Robert's right hand.

Some of the Templars glared at Maria. The rest glared at Kadar.

Robert cleared his throat. "May the Father of Understanding guide us, and have mercy." he said in a voice pitched for the parade-ground. "We have news from Acre. Richard killed his prisoners yesterday. All three thousand of them."

Kadar wondered if he had misheard. The death of three thousand men would decimate the streets of Jerusalem. It was half of Masyaf's population-a staggering number, by any count.

"Soldiers?" Maria asked.

"Men, women and children." Robert rolled his eyes. "So much for chivalry."

There was a murmur of conversation which died immediately when Robert raised his hand. "As a response," he said, "Saladin has ordered every Christian knight held hostage to be slaughtered immediately. Some two hundred men at arms."

"Madness!" somebody exclaimed.

"God's blood. Over three thousand deaths?"

"We must stop this!" Maria said shortly. There was a murmur of assent as the Templars united for once.

"Why did you Crusaders not stop Richard?" asked an Arab who wore a belted robe of rich brocade. His question fractured the fragile peace as quickly as it had formed.

Robert raised his eyebrows. "Why did you not stop Saladin, Madj Addin? You are his regent, after all."

Majd Addin's face darkened. "Remember it is through my sufferance that you Franj remain in this city."

Maria snorted. "Was it through your sufferance, as you call it, that the Assassins found our Temple in the first place? Was it through _your sufferance_ that we lost the piece of Eden?" She was taunting Majd Addin openly now, her eyes bright, right hand clenched upon the hilt of her sword.

"You dare question my loyalty?"

"Only your competence," Maria snapped.

"You dare-" Majd Addin spluttered. He glanced towards de Sable, but the knight was watching their argument with as much interest as everyone else and did not seem inclined to intervene quite yet. "You-"

"I dare much," said Maria, "-when the safety of our Order is at stake."

"It is not _I_ who imperils our Order. _I_ do not seek to rise above my sex-"

Maria's lip curled. "I doubt you could."

"Peace," said de Sable, raising his voice in a parade-ground rumble not well suited for enclosed spaces. "We came here to lay plans, not trade insults. Nobody here imperils the Templar Order. It is our enemies who do so. Save your barbs for them."

Maria sat back in her chair. "I apologise," she said in a voice that promised nothing of the sort.

Majd Addin shot her a murderous glance. "As do I."

"We must not fight amongst ourselves," de Sable continued." This land is fractured as it is.  Richard and Saladin must find common ground." He smiled briefly. "Only then will this slaughter cease."

"Yes, Grand Master," said Maria.

Majd Addin nodded. "Of course. We will all do what we can."

"This massacre is past." Robert's gaze raked across them all, challenging them. "We can do nothing to prevent it now. We must do what needs to be done to restore peace to this land."

"The Assassins thwart us at every turn," Madj Addin grumbled. "To bring peace, we must stop _them_."

"That might be more difficult than you think," Maria retorted. "Do you forget they have the Eden fragment?"

The words brought back a memory Kadar thought had long since faded; an image of a glowing orb held in his brother's hand. The treasure they had come to the Temple to steal had reached the Old Man after all.

"They have cost me gold," complained a hawk-faced trader.

"They have cost us lives!" Maria retorted.

"No matter how many of them we kill," said Majd Addin with a coldness that made Kadar wonder; "there are always more."

"That shall change," Robert said. "Assassins must be trained, and training takes time. Templars must only learn the truth. But we cannot stop the Assassins. Not yet. We must use them."

"What of the three empty seats?" asked a fat man in a white turban. "There should be more men here today. The Assassins are outside our control; and the sooner we-".

"Quiet!" Richard raised his voice so that his words crashed against the narrow walls like waves. "We shall use the Assassins! Unite Saladin and Richard against a common enemy.   Their armies shall make short work of the Assassin stronghold. We shall destroy them utterly; send their castles tumbling to the ground." He had the grace to avoid Kadar's eyes. "Their name will be a byword for infamy, their brotherhood despised by all."

"That would be a clever plan," said the fat white-turbaned man, "if Richard and Saladin were aligned. As it is, they stand upon the brink of open war."

 "We must stop this slaughter first," said a lean-faced old Franj.

"I agree," Robert said calmly. "Let us take the fight to them."

"Are you certain?" The old man frowned. "Your siege of Masyaf did not work well for us the first time."

"We can fight back in smaller ways." Robert nodded to Kadar. "I have heard that the Assassins keep a stronghold in each city. How else would they vanish after each attack?"

"There is no Assassin stronghold in Jerusalem!" Majd Addin snapped.

"There is," said Robert, "and we shall find it."

"They would not dare!" exclaimed Majd Addin.

"It is true," Kadar said. His quiet remark earned him the attention of all the Assassins, and the instant enmity of Majd Addin.

"You keep strange company for one who speaks of war against the Assassins," he said to Robert.

"Kadar is my comrade," Robert said easily. "As are you all." He turned to Kadar and his foot brushed Kadar's ankle underneath the table. "Kadar, how goes your work?"

Kadar took a deep breath. The Templar had questioned him on purpose, he knew, to appease Majd Addin. He had to have guessed that Kadar had come to some conclusion. "I think that I can find the Assassin's Bureau," he said. "I tracked the sightings of our spies. There's an area within the wealthy quarter, three blocks wide. The Bureau has to be there. It will be marked, I'm sure of it."

"We must send soldiers," said the old Franj soldier.

Maria shook her head. "Let's be sure," she said "We don't want to play our hand too early."

"I agree," Robert said. He turned to Kadar. "How sure are you?"

"Certain," Kadar said, although he had not been until Robert asked him. "Send me out into the city. I need to climb up something high."

Majd Addin snorted. "To escape, you mean." he said.

De Sable ignored him. "You have my leave to go," he said and gestured to his right. "Maria will go with you."

"Maria?" Kadar asked in surprise. The _Franj_ were not popular since Saladin's conquest of Jerusalem, and they would be less so since Richard's massacre. The Templars from the western lands did not walk the streets without precautions, and in most cases, disguise. A _Franj_ woman would be more obvious even than de Sable.

De Sable pinned him with those glass blue-eyes. "That is my wish."

Kadar nodded. "Of course, Grand Master."

"Report to me immediately on your return," Robert said, and turned back to Majd Addin. "We must double the guard in Jerusalem's rich quarter." 

Kadar knew a dismissal when he heard one. He rose from the table, pushing the chair back to its worn legs scraped on stone. Maria followed him out into the corridor.

"Meet me in the courtyard after the second call to prayer," she said. "It won't take long."

Kadar nodded. "Don't. I'll need the light."

She paused, half-turned and fixed him with her pale gaze. "I need equipment, that's all. I won't keep you waiting. I'll meet you soon."


	7. Chapter 7

Kadar returned to his room. The map was where he'd left it on the table, though the wind had intensified and blown free the fine damask hangings that draped the window grilles. He closed the shutters, plunging the room into semi-darkness, and tucked the map into his sleeve just as the _zuhr_ prayer call wailed into the sky.

Maria was waiting as she had promised. She had disguised herself, which did not surprise him, but she had chosen the dress of a Seljuk mercenary from the Sultanate of Rum, which did. The costume suited her well, and allowed her to keep her sword, although she had wrapped a piece of silk around the hilt to disguise the straight-edged Crusader blade. She folded her arms as he approached. "Will it do?"

Kadar made a show of examining her costume. "You could stand to be darker. But many of the Turks are nearly as fair haired as you." He touched his own head. "The hat is a nice touch. Nobody will be looking at your _face_."

She smiled and adjusted the folded white turban. "I like the hat. I think I shall wear it often."

"You should reconsider. It will look very odd with your strange Frankish clothes."

"It would look odd with anything," Maria said, glancing carefully up at the sky. "If you think that I can pass upon the streets, then we should go. You said you wanted good light for the search. I am sure Robert will have more work for us when we return."

It was the first time she had referred to herself and Kadar as 'we', and it made him like her a little more. He slipped a scarf around his face to hide his features and followed Maria out into the street

"Where do we go?" She spoke briefly, voice lowered in case anyone should hear, but the sound was half-lost in the bustle and hubbub of the streets.

"Northwest. It's not far from here." Kadar pointed in the direction they were walking. "Do you know of a high place near Pearl Street?"

Maria considered. "One or two. How high?"

"High enough. A minaret, for preference, or the bell tower of one of your Christian churches."

Maria looked around and her gaze softened. "I remember when the whole of this district was Christian. When the Kingdom of Jerusalem was centred on Jerusalem itself..." Her voice trailed off, her gaze softening as she glanced around.

"Do you miss it?"  Kadar asked.

Maria laughed, covering her mouth as she glanced around. Her self-conscious gesture drew more attention than the sound itself.

"Don't worry," said Kadar. "They'll just take you for a eunuch."

Maria abruptly stopped laughing. "Really?"

Kadar pushed past a stall covered with leather that, by the smell of it, had been very poorly tanned.  "The Seljuks are famous for it, you know."

"No," said Maria. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think I needed to," Kadar said.

Maria scowled at him before her face split in a smile. "Maybe you didn't. It's the perfect disguise.  And, as you asked, no, I don't miss the old kingdom. The memory of its fall reminds me why we fight for peace."

"And the tower?"

"The old Saint Anne's Church has one, and it's not far from here."

"That should be perfect," Kadar said. "Leave the talking to me. It will raise less attention."

"Really? From what I've heard about the As-about your order," she corrected, "you are no more Muslim than I."

"That's...partly true," Kadar allowed, not wishing to engage in a conversation about the finer points of the Assassin's Creed while walking the streets of Jerusalem with a foreign Templar woman.

"Besides, I shall just explain away my strange ways by telling whoever guards the tower that I am a stranger to this city." She shot him a sly glance beneath the border of her turban. The white cloth made her skin look darker than it was. "Don't worry. They'll just take you for my catamite."

Kadar stopped dead. A woman carrying a basket of oranges slammed into his shoulder and cursed as her fruit spilled into the dusty street. "I – _what?_ "

"Not mine, at least." Maria grinned. "You should have been more careful with Robert. The Templars have risen in the world since their foundation. Just because our flag was once two men on a horse doesn't mean the Order approves of two men to a bed. Although they do order men to avoid at all costs the embraces of a woman. The outcome of that tenet is more than obvious."

Kadar's brain seemed to have shut down. Somewhere very far away, the sharp scent of citrus fruit filled the passageway. "How-who _else_ knows?"

"Nobody," said Maria. "You forget that I am Robert's steward." She twisted the ring he had given her, a heavy signet emblazoned with his crest of a sword above an anchor. "His penchant for waifs and strays is surprising, for a Templar. He has an eccentric streak that's unusual for one so highly placed. Nevertheless," she shrugged, "he took me on."

"You don't mind?"

"Why should I?"

"I thought you would be jealous."

"Why?  Maybe he shares my bed, on the nights he's not in yours. Did you ever think of that?" he smiled at his expression. "Don't look so surprised. You know that he does not. I have had my fill of men for now, and besides, Robert is not my type."

"I'm glad to hear it." Kadar said.

She sniffed. "He could do worse. You fit in well, considering." Just as Kadar was wondering just what he should say to that, and whether she had given him a compliment after all she looked up and said brightly. "There's the tower. Here we are."

Kadar looked up at the squat building, its heavy lines and right angles a stark contrast to the elegant Dome of the Rock upon its hill. The tower did not look extremely tall, but a cross still jutted from its turret, and there was a joist perched on the roof in case he needed to climb to gain more height. He nodded. His mouth felt dry. "It'll do."

"Excellent," said Maria, and headed for the door.

The church had been converted to an Islamic seminary. Kadar never knew what explanation Maria gave to the head of the seminary that convinced the man to let them climb the tower. Maybe the fat purse she pushed into his hand sufficed. He summoned a servant who beckoned them into the entrance of the seminary and unlocked a narrow door with a great iron set of keys. "Up," he said, and gestured.

Maria and Kadar followed his direction. They climbed the staircase into silence. The heat, dust and constant shouting in the streets faded with the ascent. When they arrived at the top of the tower the air was cool and clean. Maria leaned upon the sill while Kadar unrolled his map upon the tower's floor. She peered down as he wrestled the paper against the wind. "Have you got your bearings?"

Kadar shook his head. "Help me hold it up," he said.

Together they unrolled the map upon the tower's wide stone sills.  Kadar aligned the streets carefully, searching for the streets he had marked upon the map. It was more difficult than he had expected. The wind tugged at the corners of the parchment, creasing the paper and smearing the ink. The buildings blocked his view despite their vantage point.

Maria frowned.  "I can't see it," she said.

"Wait," Kadar said. He glanced at the streets that spread around them, then down at the map, then back at the city again. At last the lines in front of him began to make sense. Pearl Street ran north to south, by the mosque, which meant that that was Bookseller's Row, and that-

He sketched a rough triangle in the air and stabbed his finger at the map. "It's there. The Bureau is there. Somewhere between the bath-house you can see upon the rise and the market to the north."

Maria frowned, shading her eyes beneath her massive turban. "We'll have to hurry. They won't wait for long. Can you see it?"

Kadar shook his head. "I have to get up higher." He climbed awkwardly onto the belfry sill, testing the stones for footholds as he went. The masonry around the tower's arched windows gave him small but secure handholds. He stretched, hissing as his muscles cramped from the strain, and grabbed the joist with both hands. Tensing, he arched his back, hauling his weight bodily onto the tower roof with his arms as his leg protested and his new shirt tore across its seams. The clothes the Templars had given him were not as loose as Assassin whites.  He stretched belly-down upon the warm tiles of the roof and reached down to Maria. "Hand me the map."

Maria handed him the roll of paper. "Be careful," she said. "Majd Addin would be _devastated_ if you were to fall."

Kadar stifled a chuckle. He rolled over and spread the map out on the tiles, rechecking the location. He was sure he had the right spot, and the map confirmed it. Squinting, he wedged the toe of his boot upon the paper and stood, leaning out with his other boot upon the joist while his hand shaded his eyes against the sun. The Bureau would be marked, and the mark would be visible from the air. He was nearly sure of it. He scanned each building carefully. Nothing. Nothing. N-

He paused, and saw the mark. It was a curved Assassin A, tiled into a flat roof, and half-hidden buy the shadow of a roof garden to the west and a pile of dead leaves to the east. The apex of the A pointed like an arrow towards a roof trellis shaded with vines.

Kadar had found the Bureau.

He wondered what to do about it. The search had been a game at first, the research similar to countless Assassin assignments. But the game had turned dangerous. If Kadar told the Templars, Assassins would die.

_That is no concern of yours_ , a voice that sounded like De Sable's whispered in his ear _. Not anymore. The Assassins are wrong. Only the Templars know the truth._

_Not wrong_ , he thought. _Misguided_.

He looked down again, to make sure he had not mistaken, but the Assassin emblem was still there. Like many things, it was easy enough, once you knew the way of it.

_Hide in plain sight,_ whispered a memory in Kadar's ear.

He cleared his throat and spat dust upon the tiles. "Maria," he said, "I've found it."

She stiffened like a hound questing for a scent. "Would you be able to find it again?"

Kadar nodded. He glanced down at his map and used the tip of his finger to poke a hole in the paper over the crude black square that marked the building. From his viewpoint, it looked like a small shop, a building of no particular interest or distinction.  "I've marked it."

She nodded. "Climb down. We'll go in."

Kadar nodded.

"Kadar?"

He realised that she could not see him. "I will come down," he said but he held his position a moment longer. He watched the sun melt towards the horizon and knew that he had taken an irrevocable step towards the Templars. He could have explained away his absence from Masyaf, but no longer.

Kadar sighed, crouching with his head upon his knees. Maria called his name once more, and this time he went to her, the map clutched tightly in one hand.


	8. Chapter 8

They returned to the house. Maria's conversation dwindled as they walked; first to curt comments, and then, as the shadows lengthened, to silence. Kadar did not mind. He had never felt closer to the Templars, or further from the Assassins.   The streets passed in a dream, and he found himself relieved when the Templar safe-house came in sight. The nondescript façade, no different from any other on the street with its covered windows and high walls, was the closest thing to a home that he had left.

One of Robert's servants met them in the courtyard before they had even washed the dust of the streets from their feet. "The master wants to speak with you," he said.

"No doubt he is eager to see us," Maria said. She turned to the servant. "Ready the weapons," she said. "Allow no man to leave. We'll move tonight."

Kadar's stomach lurched. He had not expected the attack to come so soon. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I am de Sable's steward. I know his ways. He'll attack the Bureau tonight. I am certain of it. He is," she smiled slightly, "not a patient man."

"I had noticed," Kadar said wryly.

Maria grinned. "Let's go up." With a wave of her hand she sent the servant scurrying ahead to announce them. She walked more slowly up the stairs than was her custom-Maria was even less patient than de Sable, and Kadar realised that she was giving Robert time to prepare for them. He matched her pace. Paper crumpled in his hand as he creased the map, and he forced himself to relax.

The route they took was familiar, although Kadar had never entered Robert's chambers upon business. The Grand Master's chambers were high on the cool northern aspect of the house. The rooms were stark and simply furnished despite Robert's exalted position. Whitewash covered brightly coloured frescoes. The drapes were plain white linen, and the floor was bare wood.  The only furniture was a large bed, a table and a few chests for clothes and weaponry. The air smelt of leather, paper and oil.

The servant announced them, bowed, and left the three of them alone. Robert studied them both across the remains of a meal. His journal rested open at his right hand. He did not seem surprised by Maria's eccentric outfit. Kadar guessed that long acquaintance had accustomed him to her strange habits.

"Have you news?" he asked.

"We found the Bureau, Master," Maria said.

"Your map worked?"

"It did," Kadar confirmed.

Robert pushed his plate away and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His face was troubled. Kadar had expected him to leap into action at the news, but it was a long while before he spoke and what he said surprised them both.

"Madj Addin is dead," he said.

Maria blinked. "Truly?" she asked.

"How?" asked Kadar. He had not liked the man, but that did not mean that he welcomed Majd's death.

"Cut down while addressing a crowd," said Robert, "in broad daylight."

Maria shrugged. "That's no great loss."

"The Order will miss him," said Robert. "We are in dire need of good men."

"I can think of a dozen women more worthy," Maria retorted.

Robert smiled, but his smile faded quickly. "As long as one of us survives, so does our plan to create a new world order," he said. "But we have even greater need to destroy the Assassins than we did before. I cannot sit by and watch as our numbers are whittled down one by one. We'll move tonight. We cannot afford to wait. Kadar, the map. Show me where the bureau is."

Kadar unrolled the map onto the table. He moved plate and cup to make room for the paper, the pointed to the building he had marked from the tower.

Robert gave him a searching glance. "You're sure?"

Kadar nodded. He had thought it would seem like less of a betrayal if he did not speak the words. It did not.

Robert reached out and touched Kadar's arm. His grip was warm, calloused and startlingly familiar. "It looks like a small building." 

Kadar nodded. "It is. The bureaus are not large places."

"What resistance can we hope to meet there?"

"There'll be a _rafiq_. Maybe a few novices, but as you said, the building's small. There'll be a coop for carrier pigeons. You must be sure to kill the message birds. They're trained to return to their nests and they can fly faster than the swiftest horse."

Robert made a note. "What else?"

"You've fought Assassins." Kadar smiled mirthlessly. "They'll be armed, but lightly armoured. Swords, throwing knives, the hidden blades." He flexed his arm and felt the comforting weight of his own gauntlet. There is a courtyard behind the building, with a grille covered by plants. The bureaus may be closed in this way to hide the entrance if pursuit should come too close."

"Traps?" Maria asked.

Kadar shook his head. "The bureaus are safe houses. There's no need. But-"

"Go on," Robert said.

"What do you intend?"

Robert sighed. "The Old Man of Masyaf sends us a message in our brother's blood. He is declaring war. He's stolen the artefact from us, the only thing that will bring peace to the Holy Land, and he seeks to use it for his own selfish ends. We must stop him, but first we must stop this Assassin, this Altaïr. If we are lucky, he may even now be resting in the Jerusalem bureau. If not, then the _rafiq_ there will surely know his destination. At the very least, we shall deprive the Assassin Order of its foothold in Jerusalem."

"What does Al Mualim want?"

"He seeks the same as us: a world where all men are united. But he seeks to control others by misleading them, the way he has misled your Brotherhood. We seek merely to open their eyes to the truth." Robert's smile was gentle. "As we have opened yours."

"Why don't you tell them?"

"Would they believe? No. Your silence speaks for itself. Your compassion does you credit. First we must end the Assassin threat. We'll move swiftly, but with mercy, the way you would slay a mad dog lunging for your throat. Then we'll see if the survivors may be converted." His gaze was not without sympathy. "But only when the Order's safe. Your loyalty lies with the Templars now."

"I had not forgotten." Kadar said.  

Robert raised his eyebrows. "Maybe not." He turned to Maria. "Ready arms and armour. Mail only, and no tabards. Enough for a dozen men. We'll strike at vigils." He turned to Kadar. "That's past midnight, between the ' _isha_ prayer and _fajr._ I'll speak with you alone about your part in the plans."

Maria coughed. "Robert-"

"Alone, Maria." Robert's voice was quiet, but commanding. "You have work to do."

"Master," Maria said obediently. She bowed to Robert, winked at Kadar, and swept away with her hat wedged under her arm the way a peasant would a pumpkin. The door closed behind her. Kadar listened to her footsteps on the floorboards die away before he asked Robert "What's my place in this?"

Robert sighed. "You stay here."

"But there's no better way for me to prove my loyalty!"

"You have proved your loyalty." Robert ran a hand through Kadar's hair, as easy as gentling a horse. "To me, at least. There are those who still say you plan to flee. Many of them are angry at Majd's death. A blade might easily find you in the dark, and all a man must do is say you moved against the Templars. I cannot guarantee your safety."

"I do not care about my safety."

"Maybe not," Robert's hand ran down the back of Kadar's neck, tousling the fine hairs, and he shivered. "But I do."

"I'm not afraid to fight!"

"I believe you." De Sable said. The tips of his fingers traced Kadar's spine. 

"You only. Nobody else."

"The history between the Templars and the Assassins is one that cannot be easily erased," Robert admitted. "But I believe we share a great and terrible truth, one that binds us closer than the Creed. One that cannot be easily forgotten. We need no Creed, no rituals-" here his right hand touched Kadar's mutilated left, "-to stop this conflict, and create our perfect world. Our Orders are not so different. You have shown us the way, Kadar. With your help we shall strike back against the Assassins."

Kadar leaned into Robert's touch. "They were my companions," he said.

"I can see you still have doubts." Robert said gently. "That's only natural."

"I've come too far. That time is past. I'm no longer an Assassin. My faith is with the Templars now."

Robert nodded. "I know," he said. His hand moved to Kadar's hip. He rose from his chair, pressing Kadar back against the table. "You've no need to prove your loyalty any further."

Kadar tilted his chin. This close, it was hard for him to look De Sable in the eye. The Frankish knight as a good head taller than he was. "That's not what this is-" he said, though the sentence was cut off as de Sable stopped his mouth with a brutal kiss.

They were already dressed by the time the servant came to summon Robert for the attack. He left without a word. Kadar returned to his own chamber.

The night seemed never-ending, like an evening from a tale. The cries of the street traders dimmed and dwindled into nothing. A dog began to bark sometime after midnight, and was joined by a chorus of hounds before the howling faded. Kadar waited for the alarm to sound that would mean the Crusaders had been revealed, but he heard no church bells. By the time the knock came at his door he had fallen into an uneasy sleep.

Kadar came instantly to wakefulness in a cold sweat. The knock repeated as he untangled himself from his bed sheets and made his way across the floor. The noise was impatient but not urgent, and heavy, as if from a mailed fist. He opened the door, and saw Robert. A bruise the size of a plum purpled the Crusader's right eye, but he moved easily, and he did not look harmed.

 "What happened?" Kadar asked.

 Robert grimaced. "It's best if you see," he said. "Come on."

He led Kadar from the chamber and down the stairs past the closed and shuttered meeting hall.  By the hall a door that Kadar only ever seen closed and locked stood ajar. He ducked under the arched doorway and followed Robert down the narrow steps inside.

Just as the door closed behind him Kadar heard the first wailing notes of the dawn prayer. The sound was quickly muffled as the door closed behind them and faded into silence as they descended the steep staircase. Kadar was no Muslim, but the sound made him shiver. The steps changed as they descended from marble to stone and then to rows of narrow brick. The staircase angled steeply-perhaps, Kadar thought, to make room for someone else's basement, or the long buried tomb of some local saint, which could not by tradition be moved. 

It did not occur to him until they reached a door guarded by a heavily armoured Arab soldier that he might be in danger himself. Robert filled the corridor in front of him like a wall of steel, his shoulders nearly too broad to move along the narrow passage. A Templar guard followed behind. A knot of fear began to tighten in Kadar's stomach. But the soldier at the gate regarded Kadar with curiosity, not hostility, as he passed, and Robert's glances over his shoulder showed concern rather than anger. 

The guard glanced at Robert, who gave a curt nod, and wedged the door open. There was a small antechamber inside with another door in the opposing wall, tightly bolted. The stones were fitted together so closely that Kadar could not have wedged a knife-blade in between them.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly, but it was just the guard, come to open the next door. The antechamber barely had room for three men standing closely.

The guard turned the key in the lock. The catch must have been newly oiled, and the key turned smoothly with scarcely a sound. There was nothing soft about the small room, or the man chained like a madman against the wall inside.

"He looks like you," de Sable said from his position against the doorpost.

Kadar swallowed. "Of course he does," he said, forcing his words between dry lips.  "He's my brother."


	9. Chapter 9

Malik glanced up at the sound of Kadar's voice. Kadar watched as disbelief, anger, fear and resignation chased their way across his brother's face.

Robert cleared his throat. "Kadar," he said. "He's the _rafiq_ of the Jerusalem bureau," he said. 

Malik, the _rafiq_ of all Jerusalem? Kadar did not believe it, but the more he looked the more it made sense. His brother looked older, harder; more dangerous. The knife they'd taken from him looked well used. The Templar guards had used a pair of chains to fasten him to the wall, and the left-hand manacle dangled uselessly against the wall behind Malik's shortened sleeve. His _rafiq's_ robe was filthy, as if he'd been dragged along the streets. He probably had. Kadar could not imagine Malik submitting without a fight.

He had no idea what to do.

Malik shifted, and Kadar heard the clink of chains.

"Kadar," he said at last.

Kadar's voice choked in his throat. He wondered wildly if he would have pointed them to the Bureau, if he'd known that it was Malik working there. It was impossible. Malik was Kadar's older brother, but he was still only twenty-three, hardly older than Altair. The Old Man would never have promoted Malik above his peers unless he'd completed some great service.

_Some great service_ , he thought, _like stealing the Apple of Eden from Solomon's Temple._

Kadar's heart sank deeper than the cellar as he realised that Malik had delivered the Templar's artefact to Al Mualim. No matter what his loyalties, he knew that he could never let the Templars discover what Malik had done.   

" _Akhi_ ," he said, forcing the words out. "Brother-" He felt de Sable's eyes upon him, and realised that the Templars would be listening to every word he said. He must, he knew, be careful.

Malik glared at him. He took a couple of tense angry steps towards de Sable, and came up against the very limit of his chains. "You're with the Templars," he said. "Are you a _fool_?"

"They saved me," Kadar said, knowing as he did so that Malik would never believe anything good of the Crusaders. "From the Temple. Was-was that where you lost your arm?"

 Malik ignored Kadar's question. "The Templars save no-one."

"They did," Kadar persisted. "Garnier healed me." He saw doubt in Malik's face and pressed his point. "The _Templars_ healed me. The Assassins left me for dead."

Malik grimaced. "I thought you were dead. I would never have stopped searching if I had known for just one moment that you were alive."

Kadar's heart sank. "And I likewise," he said. "But I have chosen my side, brother. I am with the Templars now."

"You ally with _Crusaders_? They nearly killed you, brother. They took my arm."

_I had no choice_ , Kadar thought, and _they are not all as they seem._ He swallowed, feeling as he was under interrogation rather than his brother. "It's not as –"

"You break the tenets of our Creed, Kadar. Do not compromise the Brotherhood."

"The Creed is more of Al Mualim's lies!" Kadar's voice was louder than he intended. His words echoed around the tiny prison.

"We are Assassins." Malik said quietly. "We are nothing if we don't abide by the Creed!"

Kadar swallowed. "You may be an Assassin," he said, "but I am a Templar."

Malik spat upon the straw. "You may have betrayed us," he said, "but I am still an Assassin. And you are no longer my brother." His eyes flicked from Kadar to de Sable. "I have nothing to say to you except-" and he said, very fast, in the dialect of the Syrian hill tribe where they had both been raised, " _Baklimak ba'adin insha' Allah._ We'll speak of this again."

"What did he say?" De Sable asked.

Malik's smile bared his teeth like an animal caught in a trap. "I told my brother our parents should have slept the night he was conceived. I would tell you the same were your mother not a bitch whelped with-"

Malik's words were cut short as de Sable lunged for him. The movement brought de Sable closer to the Assassin. The chains, designed for a man with two arms, gave a little. Malik brought the slack up against Robert's throat, but the Templar stepped back just in time, and the chains slipped away, leaving Robert with nothing more than an angry red welt across his skin.  

De Sable growled. "Have a care, Assassin," he snapped. "I may want information, but the only part of you I need intact is your tongue."

 "Have a care, Templar." Malik spat. "Our knives grow ever closer." 

"You'd kill me? Of that I have no doubt. It is the way of your kind." Robert stepped closer. "But you shall not find me as easy a target as old Madj Addin."

"And you shall not find me as easy to convert as my brother." Malik glared at de Sable with dark, angry eyes.   

"It is you who should be careful, Assassin." De Sable controlled himself with an effort. "Don't you know you can't win?"

Malik shook his head. "Perhaps," he said. His face fell into shadow; his forehead and the groove beside his mouth deeply lined from exhaustion and despair until for a moment Kadar saw a vision of his brother as an old man. "But that is no reason not to fight."

"I need to find the Assassin called Altaïr," Robert said evenly. "If you do not tell me where he is I shall hand you over to my guards, and you will regret it."

Malik snorted. "I cannot tell you where he is if I do not know myself. I am not Altaïr's keeper."

"Then tell me of your master's plans. His next target."

"I'll tell you nothing."

The silence settled around them like dust. Robert shook his head. "Fanatics." He turned to the guard. "Don't open the door-not even to bring water. Come, Kadar. We'll see if he keeps silent after a few days in the dark."

Malik grimaced, but he said nothing. As Robert closed the door behind him, Kadar heard a hoarse whisper in the ancestral tongue the brothers shared. " _Ana wa akhi ala ibn ammi_ \--"

Kadar swallowed hard. Every fibre of his body urged him to turn back, to open the door, not to leave Malik behind-

He kept walking while his memory filled in the rest of the proverb. " _Me against my brother, my brother and I against our cousins, then my cousins and I against strangers_."

Kadar did not need to ask what Malik had meant by that. He shivered and drew his robe more closely around him. The passage was dark and quiet as a tomb. Malik could stay down there until he was bones. The cell was locked, and the guard stood sentry outside the prison door to prevent any escape. They passed another guard at the top of the stairs. Malik was unlikely to escape without help.     

Kadar felt the cool night air on his face. The sensation was a vast relief after the airless passage and the tiny room down in the dark. He felt a wave of guilt for enjoying something Malik was denied. A wash of nausea overcame him, and he spilled his stomach in the dirt.

Robert waited until he was done vomiting before he patted Kadar on the shoulder. "That went well," he said. "Nobody who saw the look upon your face could have doubted that you were ignorant of the Assassin's plans. You gave a good accounting of yourself."

Kadar shook his head weakly. "What do you want from me?" he demanded. "I did as you asked. I found the Jerusalem bureau.  I am a Templar, Robert. Is it not enough?"

"Not for some."

"Then it never will be." Kadar made no effort to lower his voice. He did not care who heard.

"Maybe not," Robert took Kadar by the shoulder. His mailed hand bit into Kadar's skin. "But this is a conversation we should have elsewhere, not in the open shouting like a pair of common fishwives." He took Kadar by the arm and dragged him into the shelter of the Great Hall. Kadar had not the energy to argue. He sank down into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

He was a Templar. And Malik, God help him, was alive, and an Assassin

Where did that leave them?

He knew that Robert would expect him to denounce both his brother and the Assassins. The second he was accustomed to by this stage, the first he could not do.

"I thought he was dead," he muttered through his fingers.

"Who told you that?" De Sable seemed genuinely surprised.

"Garnier told me only one Assassin escaped the Temple when I woke. When I heard Altaïr had survived, I thought- He broke off. "I-I did not ask again."

He wondered if things would be different if he had.

"Grievously wounded, no doubt," De Sable said, "but not dead." He sat down across from Kadar and crossed his arms over his chest. "He put up a good fight in the bureau. It was only luck we lost no men. You truly did not know?"

Kadar shook his head. He did not know how Malik had managed to become Jerusalem _rafiq_ , despite his missing arm, but he was not surprised his brother had found a way. Malik was nothing if not stubborn.

"Does this change things?" Robert asked quietly.

"No." Kadar said. "I'll not be made a traitor twice. I am your man."

Robert nodded. "Good. Then I'll tell you of our plans. Madj Addin will be buried tomorrow. I'll visit his grave as a gesture of peace. Then I'll ride to Arsuf to plead my case to King Richard and Salah-ad-din. We'll use Sinan's recent murders to unite the Crusaders and the Muslims against the Old Man's hounds. The Frankish king and the sultan will learn they have more in common that they think. It's the only way to save the Holy Land."

 "What use will you have for my brother?"

Robert grimaced. "If he will lead us to Altaïr we could dispense with this masquerade. But I have little time. I should have had you dress as an Assassin and pretend we captured you. Maybe your brother would have spoken more freely. But I was eager to see what you made of the situation."

"I can't lie to my brother."

"Then tell him the truth. Mayhap he'll tell you willing. If not-"

"What will happen?"

"We must know the Assassins' plans." Robert said. The threat of violence lurked beneath his quiet words like the Arab frescos beneath the Templar whitewash on the walls of the Great Hall. "I take no pleasure in torture. I've seen men under duress swear that they were not their mother's son. Often all that you learn is whatever the man you are hurting thinks you want to know. It's not reliable." He gave a shrug. "But it is sometimes necessary."

Kadar felt sick.   "But-"

"He is an Assassin. The Assassins are our enemies." De Sable glared at Kadar with those ice-pale eyes. "Or have you forgotten?"

"I have not forgotten," Kadar said. "But he is still my brother.'

"There may be other ways," said Robert. "A good informer is worth much more than another dead Assassin. When you have your enemy backed into a corner, the wisest course of action is to kill him or turn him to your cause."

"Turn him?"

 "As I did with you. Make him understand.  Convert him to our cause. Show him the truth. Find out the Assassins' plans, one way or another. We must know their next target."

"If he won't?"

Robert shrugged. "I ride for Arsuf in the morning. I will be back in three days' time. You have until then. If you don't succeed, I can't protect him. Do you understand?"

Kadar understood only too well. "I will try," he said. He knew that it would be hopeless. Malik might suspect the business with the Templars was more complicated than it seemed, but he would never break the Creed.

Robert nodded. He clapped Kadar on the shoulder as he rose to leave. "You have three days."


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn painted the sky with broad strokes when Kadar returned to the prison. He took water in a tanned skin and a piece of flat bread wrapped in cloth. He left his hidden blade behind. The guard let him in without comment. Robert must have left orders to have him admitted. 

He followed the winding staircase down into the earth. The air grew chill around him. The guard at the bottom of the stairs was slouched against the wall. He straightened as Kadar approached.

"De Sable said you'd come," he said. His face was hard, his skin a sandy shade between Robert's and Kadar's own.

Kadar nodded.

"They say he's your brother."

Kadar nodded. He tensed, his hand tracing the wall. "Let me in."

The guard sucked his teeth. "I wouldn't if I were you. You want my advice-"

Kadar cut him off with a snap of his hand. "I don't." He'd spent too long already thinking about the visit. "Let me in."

The guard shrugged. "It's your decision." He turned to open the door and Kadar noticed the thin line of a fresh wound down one cheek, perhaps a legacy of the evening's Bureau raid.

_No_ , he thought. _Malik wouldn't have missed._

The door creaked open. The air that escaped was cold and stale. The interior was dark. Kadar could see no sign of movement.

"Brother," he said. The darkness inside seemed to swallow his words. The guard passed him a small earthenware lamp. He stepped inside the door and the shadows fled before him. Malik sat with his back against the wall, his right arm resting on his knees and the stump of his left hidden in his black robe. A narrow cuff gleamed around his wrist. He narrowed his eyes as Kadar stepped inside, but made no other movement.

Kadar squatted down on the other side of the cell. He pulled the stopper from the water-skin and held it out to Malik. "You can close the door," he called out to the guard.

"I'm to leave it open."

"Then move away a pace." Kadar said. The open door transformed the prison into a public place. He heard the guard shuffle to the bottom of the steps and held the skin closer. "I brought water."

Chains clinked as Malik held out his hand. Kadar passed him the skin and he drank deeply. He stopped before the skin was halfway empty and used a handful of the water to wash his face and hands. Water dripped to the floor, gleaming like oil in the lamplight. 

"Kadar," he said in a voice like a knife whetted upon stone. "You should have stayed dead, brother."

The words wounded, but Kadar knew Malik had meant them to. His brother had always wielded words as deftly as his sword. He wondered how to answer. Malik had always been the more eloquent of the two.

"They told me you were dead," he said at last.

"Templars lie," Malik said. He made no movement save for a restless flicking of his fingers that in another place would have had up him and pacing the room.

Kadar handed Malik the bread he had brought. "It was a mistake." he said. "What was I to think? I did not know, I swear it on my soul." He swallowed. "How did you become the _rafiq_?"

Malik picked up the bread with his good hand and tore it into measured strips between his fingers. The movement looked well practiced to Kadar, as if Malik had had time to adjust to his loss. "I lived. And I brought Al Mualim what his favourite failed to find."

" _Sekut, akhi_." Kadar pointed to the door. "Quiet, brother. The guard listens."

Malik's eyes flicked to the entrance. "Those Templars had to die. They hid the treasure from us."

Kadar chose his words as carefully as he would select a throwing knife. "Al Mualim stole the treasure from the Templars. Malik, he lied to us. He used to be a Templar, but he betrayed them. He's using the Order to serve his own ends-"

"Did they tell you that?" Malik demanded. "Did you believe them? What do you think more likely, that a Templar lies or that the Old Man does?"

"They showed me letters-"

"Letters can be forged."

"These weren't. Malik, they were signed by Al Mualim himself. Marked by his seal! I've seen them with my own eyes."

Malik tore off a piece of bread, stretching it between the thumb and middle finger of his good hand. He chewed and swallowed. "I cannot believe that our entire Order is based upon lies," he said between bites.

"Believe it." Kadar said flatly. "It is true."

"I know Altaïr has doubts, though I have not spoken to him. I-" he winced. "Things have been bad between us since you have been gone. I blamed Altaïr for your death. Maybe I should not have been so quick to judge." He ate another piece of bread and wrapped the remainder in the cloth. "But that is another matter entirely. You are with the Templars. Why did they send you here?"

Kadar could think of a thousand reasons why he had come. He settled upon one. "To talk."

Malik shook his head. He was close enough that Kadar could have reached out and touched him, but he made no move. It was as if they had been separated by more than just the chains. "Then I'll save your voice. There is nothing I can say that will make the Templars free me. So that is what I will tell them-nothing. Whatever they do." 

"You could join them." Kadar said quietly.

"As you did?" Malik shook his head. "I am not so naive."

"Not naive. Malik, the Templars opened my eyes to Al Mualim's treachery. We have more in common than you think. They've made me free, and they'll release you too, if you join them-"

"The Creed does not command us to be free." Malik snapped. "It commands us to be wise."

"Then see what is before your eyes! Tell me this, brother-how many did we kill that night in Solomon's Temple?"

Malik shook his head. "I was in no condition to notice."

"How many?"

Malik glanced down ruefully at the four fingers on his remaining hand. "Six?"

"One. And he was an Arab like ourselves."

Malik's eyes narrowed. He frowned. "An Arab? The Templars are Crusaders. Even novices know that."

"The Templars are not all Franks. They're a brotherhood like ours. They seek to unite the Christians and the Muslims."

"By turning them against the Assassins!"

"They fight for peace." Kadar said. He could be just as stubborn as his brother, when he tried. 

Malik made a disgusted sound. "How can you say that?"

"Because I believe it! I swore an oath, Malik-"

His brother's eyes were sharp as eagles. "Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

Malik sighed. The silence settled like dust between them. Kadar shifted and stretched his lame leg out into the centre of the room. The movement caught Malik's eyes. He rotated his wrist to point at Kadar's leg. Crumbs clung to his fingers. "What happened?"

"My knee." Kadar said. "It tore. I had other wounds as well, but that was the worst- He broke off, ashamed to complain of his own injuries when Malik was so obviously crippled. "I can still climb."

"I have tried," Malik admitted. His fingers curled around his knee, and the chain around his wrist struck the stones dully. "I have not found it easy."

Kadar understood. Malik had never liked to admit weakness. Even here, chained, a captive, and facing death, his back was straight, his eyes sharp. If he waited, it was to turn the situation to his own advantage, and if that advantage never came, well, _insha'allah_. That was the will of God. Kadar wished he could bear his fate with half the fortitude.

"How did we come to this?" Malik asked softly.

Kadar did not know how to answer.  "They have given me three days," he said.

"What then?" Malik cut like a sword to the heart of the matter.

Kadar shook his head. "Malik," he said "you have to join the Templars. You'll die. You've admitted that you suspect Al Mualim hides information from you-"

"He's the leader of the Order. That is his right." Malik leaned back against the stones. He tipped his head back and looked at Kadar from under hooded eyes. "I shouldn't have to tell you that Assassins aren't afraid to die. Or have you forgotten that, as well?"

"Stop arguing and listen! I nearly died in Solomon's Temple. You don't understand. There's no garden...no heavenly reward, no virgins, just nothing."

"Why would I be afraid of _nothing_?"   

"So you'll give up?"

"Of course not." Malik looked at Kadar as if he was a child. "I will fight. But there are some fights you cannot win and some commands you can't refuse. The Order will not miss me and the Assassins will win in the end. Altaïr will end this madness with his blades."

Kadar sighed. "Fate smashes us like we were made of glass," he said, quoting an old poem he knew was one of Malik's favourites.

"And never are our shards put together again." Malik finished.  "You're no longer my brother in the Creed. He reached out, gripped a handful of Kadar's hair and shook his head gently back and forth. It was a familiar gesture, made with only half the force. "But you will always be my brother in blood."

 Kadar felt the weight of memory descend upon his shoulders with the load of half Jerusalem. The path that had brought him and Malik to the prison was long and twisted. He wished he had had the foresight to choose a straighter path. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Masyaf. The air smelt of stone dust, earth and urine.

Hard hands grabbed him by the hood of his jerkin and wrenched him away. He saw Malik's hand stretched out towards him, the fingers stained by ink, the calluses from years of swordplay smoothing into the soft hands of a scribe.

"Let go!" somebody shouted. The echo was deafening in the small room. He heard the harsh music chains as Malik recoiled. His head cracked painfully against stone as the guard wrenched him back against the wall and stepped between Kadar and Malik with his sword drawn.

"What are you doing?" Kadar shouted. He cursed himself. The guard could never have touched him if he had been paying attention. He hadn't been.

The guard stared at him uncomprehendingly. "He had you by the throat!"

"He would not hurt me! He's my brother!"

The guard hawked and spat. "He's an Assassin. Ask those who found the bureau! Ask Hassan. It'll be a few days before he can walk without a limp."

"You're a fool." Malik snapped.

The guard growled and stepped forwards. The bread Kadar brought was crushed underfoot, and the water-skin spilled its contents onto stone.

Kadar had his hidden blade at the soldier's throat before the man had even registered he had moved.

 Malik's eyes flicked between the steel in the soldier's hand and the knife at his throat. "My thanks, brother," he said, not without some irony. "Remember my words. And don't come here again. It would not be wise."

"Let go of me," the guard spluttered. Kadar smelt the stink of his body, the smell of a man who had gone many days without bathing in the hot Syrian sun. He gave the blade a twist before he flicked his wrist and re-sheathed the dagger in his sleeve.

The guard backed away from Malik and Kadar. Blood trickled down his throat. He raised his hand to rub his neck and stared at the rusty stain on his fingers. "No wonder De Sable set me to keep an eye on you!"

"Don't question me."  

The guard cursed and re-sheathed his sword with some difficulty in the cramped space. "We shall see what happens when Robert returns. I wonder whether he will side with his solders-" he gave Kadar a scornful glare, "or with his catamite."

Kadar did not dare glance at Malik. "Yes," he said. "We shall see with whom he sides."

"It will not matter." Malik's voice was tired. Kadar could not tell if he had heard, and he did not possess the courage to ask. "You'd best leave de Sable's side quickly, Kadar. It would not be wise for you to stay."

Kadar's retort died in his throat. He had expected many things from Malik, but not a warning. But then, Malik had always seen it as his job to get Kadar out of trouble. "What do you mean?" he asked

Malik just looked at him.

Kadar turned away from the furious guard, from Malik's arguments and the cramped oppressive confines of the tiny room. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to be free of the place. Once he reached the courtyard he stood under the dark night sky and inhaled breath after breath of cool air. His right hand clenched uselessly in the folds of his robe.

_I have advanced with one foot and retreated with the other for too long._

He thought that he had chosen between the Templars and the Assassins but he was not surprised to find himself wrestling with his loyalty yet again. Once again, his feet rested on unfamiliar ground.

If he tried to free Malik, they would both die. If he did not, he would have to live with the knowledge that he might have saved his brother. Either way, Al Mualim might win. 

Kadar saw no answer in the clear horizon. He turned from the courtyard and made his way to Robert's chambers. He'd hoped the Templar would be awake despite the late hour, but the Templar took a long time to respond to Kadar's urgent knock upon his door. When he did, it was in his night gown. 

"Kadar?" he asked, his voice crisp. "What news?"

"I know the Assassins' next target," Kadar said.

Robert grasped him by the elbow and drew him inside. His body stiffened like a hunting hound's. "Who?"

Kadar swallowed. "It's you," he said. "They're going to assassinate you."  


	11. Chapter 11

The Templars crowded into the great hall. The long table and the chairs had been pushed against the wall to make way for the press of bodies. The air smelled of smoke and the incense burned to keep insects away. De Sable stood upon the table and called for order. The murmurs quickly quieted.

"Tell me what you know," he asked Kadar

"The Assassin will strike at you in public."  Kadar said, raising his voice to make certain he was heard. For Robert to address him directly in such a public gathering was a sign of great favour, but the presence of such a large crowd made him nervous. "He'll use Madj Addin's funeral as a distraction."

"Are you sure?"

Kadar nodded. "It's the Assassin way."

"Then we'll turn Madj Addin's funeral into a trap!" Maria called. She showed no sign of exhaustion despite the lateness of the hour. The news seemed to invigorate her. Her back was straight, her eyes bright. Her grin was sharp. 

"Such disrespect," somebody murmured. There was a sudden hubbub of voices, some for and some against.

De Sable stamped upon the table. "The man is dead! He will not know-or care. If any disrespect is due then surely it falls upon the head of the Assassin. We can use that against Majd's murderer-explain his presence to the crowd. They'll turn on him."

Kadar did not think Altaïr would be so bold as to announce his presence to the crowd. "My lord," he called, "what about your safety? Altaïr has killed eight men already."

Robert looked solemn. "If I must sacrifice myself for peace, so be it."

Kadar looked around the hall. Somebody shouted a denial. Other voices rose to agree or argue the point, while some men wept at this evidence of faith. Maria squared her jaw. "The mission to Arsuf is too important!" she called. "Robert and Saladin will not meet without the Grand Master. Choose somebody else to attend the funeral in your stead. The Assassin will mistake the imposter for you, and surprised, he may more easily share Madj Addin's tomb. "

Robert demurred, but a dozen voices rose to back Maria's, and he was forced to give way. "Very well," he said, and leapt down to the floor to walk amongst them. With his mail and great height, he seemed a martial idol. "But I shall choose the man who is to take my place."

Templars began to push forwards, each fighting for the honour. Kadar found himself at the front of the crowd. His shoulder touched Maria's. Robert's blue eyes passed Kadar over, and fixed on the woman next to him.

"Maria," he said, "Are you willing to risk your life defending mine?"

She knelt. Robert's ring gleamed upon her finger. "I am honoured, my lord."

Robert raked their faces with his gaze. "I'll send twenty men," he said, and named them, one after another. "Ready yourselves. The funeral begins at dawn, and we have little time. Those whom I have not named, look to our defence. This stronghold is ours, and we shall defend it come what may. Your contribution is as valued as the rest. Maria, Kadar, I shall meet with you in the courtyard." He laid his hand across his heart, " _Non nobis dominum_ , my friends. May the father of understanding guide you."  

The room swiftly emptied as the Templars hurried away to prepare. Maria and Kadar exchanged glances. Maria's cheeks glowed with pride.

"Be careful," he told her. "Altaïr is very skilled."

"I always have," She grinned at his expression. Her face was still flushed. "Don't worry, little brother. I have some skill myself, and I am not afraid. The fire is not daunted by the quality of wood to burn. The Assassin's head is mine."

Kadar shook his own head. "Do you think other men haven't tried and failed?"

She laughed. "Maybe," she said, "but they were men."

If the situation had not been so dire. Kadar would have been amused at the thought of Altaïr subdued by a woman. "I suppose so," he said. He was beginning to worry about his own role in the conflict, but his own doubts were washed away as Robert joined them. "When will you leave?"

"With the dawn," Robert said, his eyes already on the horizon. "Maria, take my armour from the study. It will not fit well-" he gave a rueful smile, "but if you stand by the priest, and do not move overmuch, the Assassin should not notice."

She smiled. "I'll use padding."

"What will be my task?" Kadar asked. 

Robert reached out and rested his hand on Kadar's shoulder. "You have served me well in more ways than I count," he said. "But you still have two days left out of your three. I have great faith in you. Make amends to your brother. Offer him our mercy, and find out what he offers in return."

The thought made Kadar feel sick. He dropped his gaze to the stone. He could not imagine returning to that dank, airless little prison. He could not live with himself if he saw Malik again and did not free him, and he was unlikely to live for any length of time if he did.

He nodded hopelessly. Robert caught Kadar's chin and tipped his head up to meet his eyes. "I know that this is hard for you," he said, "Remember that the road to peace is never easy. When I am done in Arsuf I shall come and find you. I have great plans, Kadar. This is only the beginning."

He let go of Kadar's jaw, removed his glove and stretched out his hand in the custom of the _Franj._   Kadar shook his hand hesitantly and pulled Robert into an embrace. "Safety and peace," he said, his voice thick.

He felt Robert's smile. "May the Father of Understanding guide you," he said, and walked away.

Kadar watched him go. He had a sudden urge to protect Robert, call him back, to swathe him in silk so no arrowhead might strike him, and an even stronger feeling that such precautions would be useless.  He felt like the Sharif of Cordoba, who had dreamed one night that he would be killed in a fall from his horse, and had removed all the paving-stones from the streets, only to die when his horse reared in a battle. Prudence was no protection against fate.

He jumped as Maria clapped him on the shoulder and left to follow Robert. She looked back once, and waved.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of preparation.  Kadar sharpened swords and filled quivers, carried water and laced armour, but he could not shake the sense of foreboding that clung to his shoulders like an old robe.

The soldiers left as the skies reddened towards dawn.  Kadar sat in the courtyard. The empty fountain tugged at his thoughts, reminding him that Malik would have finished the small amount of water he had left him. Kadar ignored his growing guilt.

He heard the bells toll for Madj Addin's funeral. The sound startled a flock of pigeons, who circled with clapping wings. After a while the bells fell silent, and the birds returned to their roost.

_It will be now_ , Kadar thought.

He wished strength to Maria's sword arm and speed to Robert's horse. The sound of the streets outside rose to fill the space left by the bells between the city's spires. The hubbub Kadar reassured Kadar, who rose to return to his room-

And then a wild chaotic discord drowned out the sound of gossip. The pigeons rose again, their pale bellies reflecting the morning sun. Kadar shared his eyes to look up at the sky and saw a shadow circling high above.

The hawk's cry split the sky. Unaffected by the bells, it stooped as fast as an arrow and struck the flock less than an arm's length above the rooftops as the birds descended to the safety of their cage. A pigeon vanished in a puff of feathers. A single drop of blood fell through the air and landed in the dusty courtyard, where it splashed like a scarlet ink-blot on the tiles in front of Kadar.

Kadar stared at the stain. He was still staring when he heard the crash of the main gate flying open. A mailed figure stumbled through, tabard torn, sword vanished, and toppled to its knees with a sound like a pile of cymbals falling into a gorge.

Kadar thought for one wild moment that it was Robert. As the mailed man raised both his hands to prise the helm from her head he realised it was Maria.

The servants and Kadar made it to her at the same time. Kadar was first to speak.

"What happened?"

Maria's face was pale. "The funeral turned to chaos," she said.

"And the Assassin?" 

"Escaped. He pursues Robert. It was my-" She bit her lip, returned some colour to her pale cheeks. "I taunted him. I thought that I would die, you understand? It was a foolish move all the same. The Assassins rides to Arsuf."

"What can we do?'

"We'll never reach him in time." Maria said. She reached out to clasp Kadar's arm with a grip as strong as any man's. "Maybe your brother will tell us more. Some weakness-"

Kadar shook his head. "Altair has no weakness, or at least none that I have ever known."

"Robert has won every fight I've ever seen him in." Maria said stubbornly. She accepted a jug of water from a servant and drank straight from the spout.  

"So has Altaïr." Kadar wondered what happened when an irresistible force met an immovable object.

She shook her head. "I've never seen a man so skilled. I would admire him, if he were not my enemy."

Word had spread, and men descended from the stairs to crowd around Maria. Kadar found himself crowded to the edge of the group as they slung questions like stones.

"What happened to the men who went with you?"

Maria bent her head. "None survived," she said.

There was a general chorus of disbelief. "No man can stand against twenty! How did you survive?"

"Why did he spare you?"

"Couldn't you capture him between your legs as you did Robert?"

Kadar felt his cheeks flush.  Maria stood like a statue in the centre of the crowd, though Kadar saw the fire of anger light her eyes. "He spared me because I was a woman," she said defiantly. "He told me I was not his target and that he would not take my life."

"You ran!" somebody accused.

"I did not!" Maria's blue-glass glare raked the crowd. "I will stand against any man who says otherwise. You there, John, have you ever been able to withstand my blade? And you, Salim-have you ever once beat me in the practice ring? That is why Robert chose me to take his place."

"He should have chosen another!" somebody called.

"Maybe he should!" Maria's eyes were bright. She loosened her gauntlets with her teeth and flung them to the ground. "I have fulfilled my task. Not tend to yours instead of bothering me with questions! Robert will have your heads if this stronghold is not secure when he returns. I'll answer to my master for my failure, and not to you pack of mangy curs!" She caught each of their eyes and one by one they slunk away, shamefaced.

Kadar picked up Maria's gauntlets as he approached her. He handed them across like a peace-offering. She took them with a curse and tucked them into her belt.  "Gods. Those jackals. How dare they criticise me! They were not there!"

Kadar could imagine what had happened. Maria bore the marks of hard fighting on her face. "What now?" he asked.

She shrugged and sat down heavily upon the fountain's rim. "Help me out of this armour. There is nothing we can do. The Assassin is already too late."

"Then we wait."

"Yes," Maria said, "We wait."


	12. Chapter 12

De Sable died shortly after midnight.

The news reached the city at dawn, carried on the swift wings of the pigeons the Templars had adopted from the Arabs. The Templar spy in King Richard's army had dispatched three birds. Only one reached Jerusalem's walls. The pigeon fluttered into de Sable's study through the star-shaped piercings in the shutters and perched on the back of Kadar's chair.

Kadar caught the pigeon's coral-pink legs between his fingers and cradled the bird in his palm. He teased the message from its leg. The cramped Latin on the parchment took him some time to decipher, but he got there in the end.

_De Sable is dead, slain by the Assassin in combat. King Richard has proclaimed that God has favoured the Assassin in his quest and will let no man touch him on pain of death. We must take steps to ingratiate ourselves with the Crusader Army, or find this land lost to us for now. May the Father of Understanding guide us in this, our darkest hour._

Kadar turned the paper over, searching desperately for a denial. The paper tore between his trembling fingers.

His heart howled.

He looked over at Maria. The Frankish woman slept restlessly in her chair. She clutched her sword to her chest as a child would clutch a doll. Dark smudges of exhaustion marred the skin beneath her eyes.  Kadar stretched out his leg to nudge the seat and she came instantly awake before he even touched the chair.

"What's happening?"

Kadar handed her the message. He watched as she read it; watched her blue-glass eyes turn opaque and hard; watched her jaw set; watched her chin rise.

She set the paper down, sighed, and reached out to smooth the spilled-oil feathers of the pigeon's wings.

"So that's it, then."

Kadar nodded. "What will you do?"

She rose, moving as if she was two hundred years old instead of two score. The pigeon fluttered up in panic. Kadar could guess how she felt at the loss of her sponsor and her friend, and if he could then it was only because he felt much the same way himself.  "The Order will elect a new Grand Master, but if will not be for some time."

"That's not what I meant."

Her face was bleak. "I'll stay. For a time at least. You should know that Robert's death will have repercussions. Not all of them will be pleasant." She twisted the ring on her finger and stared at the floor. "He was an unusual man. His interpretation of the Templar tenets was far more liberal than some."

Kadar understood what she left unspoken. He knew of no other women in the Order, and no former Assassins. "Things will be different."

"I'll tell the others." 

"I'll come."

She shook her head, buckling her sword onto her hips with shaking hands. "You should stay.  The troops will not be pleased. Robert's enemies will unsheathe swords they dared not brandish while they lived." She met his eyes for the first time since they'd learned of de Sable's death. "Do you understand?"

Kadar nodded.

"What will you do?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said.

Kadar looked into his future, and saw a dozen different paths. In one he became a Templar, and fought by Maria's side. In another, he returned to the Assassins, and Al Mualim rewarded him for the value of the knowledge that he brought. In a third, he died upon the blades of Templar soldiers who blamed the Assassins for de Sable's death. In yet a fourth, he took a leap of faith with no hay to break his fall.  

 "Haven't you ever wondered how your path became so crooked?" he said at last.

She smiled. "Yes. Many times. I wish you well, Kadar al-Sayf. Maybe you'll be here when I return. _Ma'a as-salaama_."

He did not know himself. " _Ila-liqaa'_."

He saw that gap-toothed grin for the last time before she snatched up the pigeon's message and walked out the door, her back as straight as the first time he had seen her, her shoulders a touch more squared.

Kadar caught the pigeon's legs and carried it to the window. He threw the shutters wide with his free hand.

Jerusalem was beautiful. Her minarets and spires were shadowed purple against the yellow sky.  Wood-smoke rose on the breeze in misty curls from a hundred ovens as her inhabitants rose to bake bread for the morning meal. Beyond the city walls rows of cedars and olive groves stretched out to where the mountains rose like sleeping giants. Kadar felt his heart break a little more.

He raised his hands and released the pigeon. The bird leaped from his grasp with a clap of its wings. Its claws scraped his hands as it launched itself into the air, wings frantically pumping as it fought to gain height. Within seconds it was lost amongst the rooftops.

Kadar turned away. He left the shutters open.  His hidden blade was heavy on his wrist. He checked the fit of the weapon automatically, his hands stained saffron-yellow by the dawn's amber light. The blade worked perfectly, as always.

It was time to put it to use.

Kadar walked from the room and headed downstairs to the courtyard. A bell began to toll as he descended. At first he moved with halting steps, but the closer he got to the ground floor, the faster he moved. He slipped on the last step and steadied himself against the wall for a second before he tugged down his left sleeve to conceal his blade and limped into the courtyard. The bell chimed like a hammer.

There was nobody there. Kadar heard hostile voices underpinning the bell's insistent toll, but he did not linger long enough to chart their source.  He skirted the ruined fountain and walked to the low arched doorway. The door opened easily at the pressure of his hand.

Kadar thought of a dozen reasons why the door could have been left unlocked. He pushed them from his mind. He could not lose momentum, not now, not when he had taken the last of what seemed like a score of irrevocable steps. He flung the door open and went down, descending through the bones of Jerusalem's past at a speed that was far from comfortable.

A soldier waited at the base of the winding stair. He straightened as Kadar entered and peered at him by the light of a flickering lamp. The oil had been treated with a pinch of salt to reduce soot, but the ceiling of the small room was blackened all the same from two days of constant guard.

Kadar cleared his throat. "Open the door," he said, trying not to choke on the fog of rancid grease and smoke that filled the room. "De Sable wants to see the prisoner."

"De Sable's not here."

"He's just arrived." Kadar twisted Robert's ring from his finger and held it out. "He gave me this."

The guard took de Sable's signet and turned it over in his hands. Kadar leaned against the wall and fought to keep his body language casual. He kept his left arm very still. He didn't want to risk triggering his blade before he was ready to attack.

At last the guard looked up. "The Grand Master is here?"

"That's what I told you." Kadar let a hint of Altaïr's arrogance trickle into his voice and seasoned it with Malik's sarcasm. "He's here and he is not patient. Do you want to keep him waiting? Because I don't."

The guard spat upon the stone. "He's been here for days, and now the Grand Master wants to hurry?"

"That's what he said."

The guard sighed and drew a heavy key from his belt. "Typical. And it's good riddance if you ask me."

He did not elaborate, and Kadar did not ask him to. He watched as the guard slid the key in the lock. The tumblers clicking sounded like success.

The door opened.

Kadar hesitated for a moment. His first mistake, though he didn't know that at the time. The room was dark, and he couldn't see Malik. The he saw a flicker of rusty black in the darkness as his brother jerked himself to his feet. He rose too quickly, reached back to steady himself with a hand that was no longer there, and staggered. Kadar and the guard saw the movement in the dark, but nothing else. The guard cursed and drew his sword with a wild swing that nearly gutted. Malik had slumped against the wall. The guard's first strike went wide.

He did not get a second.

Kadar punched the guard in the small of the back with a blow that began an arm's length away from the soldier's spine and ended with Kadar's left fist jammed against his back and six inches of Assassin steel buried in his guts.

The guard died silently, his mouth wide as he gasped for breath which never came. Kadar heard a thud as the body hit the ground, followed by a crack as the dead man's skull bounced off the flagstones.

"Malik," he gasped, "get up."

Malik stumbled to his feet. He moved more awkwardly than he had before, and Kadar wondered if his brother's poise had been a disguise to conceal just how much Malik's injury had cost him. It did not matter. Kadar was far too sensible to ask and Malik was far too proud to answer.

"Can you walk?"

His brother's face was ghost-pale in the gloom. "Yes. But you'll need to free these chains."

Kadar reached for the dead man's shoulder and rolled the corpse. He searched inside the dead man's shirt, his belt-pouch, even round his neck, but found nothing. The soldier's wound welled sluggish blood.

"The key?"

Kadar shook his head. "He doesn't have it."

Malik glanced up at the stone ceiling. "Do we have much time?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

His brother held out his right arm and the shackle glinted like a rusty bracelet on his wrist. "Then use your blade to pick the lock. Hurry."

Kadar knelt down. The lock was small and terrifyingly close to Malik's skin. The slender blade was a very clumsy instrument for such a task. He considered mentioning this to Malik, then realised that if he knew it then his brother almost certainly did too. "What if I slip?"

"You won't. Work quickly."

Kadar flexed his wrist. His hidden blade shed a single crimson droplet as it slid out. Kadar wiped the dagger on his sleeve. He gritted his teeth, bent over the cuff and probed the lock with the tip of his knife. He felt tumblers slide, resist. He teased the thin blade past them and felt the point catch on something hard. He pushed, and felt the metal bend. He withdrew the knife, and tried again. Same results.

"I don't think this will work."

"It has to. If you can't pick the lock or find the key I stay here or lose my other hand." Malik's voice was tense. "Try."

Kadar tried. The tumblers remained stubbornly in place. His knife bent again, and he withdrew the blade before it could snap. "Keep still."

Malik complied. "They'll know you freed me," he said quietly.

Kadar would have shrugged in reply, but his body was too tense and his hands too busy. "I'm not a fool, you know."

"What changed?"

"De Sable's dead," Kadar said. His knife slipped aside again, and he tried once more.

"Did you-"

"Not I. Altaïr."

Malik drew and held a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Kadar felt his brother's shoulders rise and fall. "The Templars are in disarray," he said, to forestall any comment, "If you go, it must be now. It'll take the Order some time to gain their footing from this fall."

Malik nodded. Kadar wrenched at the shackle. It did not break.

"How much more time?"

"I don't know."  Kadar said. The light had not changed, but it never did in the dim confines of the prison. He could hear no sound, but the insistent tolling of the bell had faded into silence before he was half way down the stairs. They'd be both dead if they were caught in such a place.

"Do it," Malik said. "Take the hand. If you rip up that guard's clothes for bandages we should be able to make it into the city before I bleed out."

"No!"

"Then keep trying."

Kadar bit his lip. The air was cold, but sweat prickled in the roots of his hair. He had, he decided, neither the time nor the tools for delicacy.  He jammed the blade in until he thought it would bend, and then he twisted. Hard.

His hidden blade snapped cleanly at the sheath. The damaged piece clattered to the floor as Kadar withdrew his hand. The cuff opened.

Malik twisted his hand free from the cuff. The chains fell coiled like snakes to the ground. Kadar saw a weal of puffy flesh around his brother's wrist as Malik tucked his hand into his robe. "How are you?"

His brother's smile was like a broken blade. "Still living." He kicked the guard's body and the dead man rolled limply. "I can use his coat as a disguise. Help me get it off."

They worked the dead guard's amour off over his shoulders. The work was hard and awkward in such a small space. The coat was burgundy cloth padded with silk to trap any arrows, and reinforced with a layer of heavy mail. Malik winced as its weight hit his shoulders.

They walked together up the stairs. Malik leaned one shoulder against the wall for support. Kadar held the dead guard's sword in his hand. He was not sure what to expect, but the courtyard was empty. Nobody waited. Kadar cut straight across the courtyard to the front gate. The door opened easily from the inside. They ducked beneath the threshold and turned without discussion to the markets that lined the border of the Jewish and Muslim quarters within the district. 

"Where will you go?" Kadar asked as they walked. He stumbled. His limp grew more pronounced as pain lanced up his leg. Malik slowed his steps in response.   

"To the Bureau. Altaïr will return there, if I have not missed him already. Will you come?"

"I'll join you later. I need-" Kadar hesitated. He had no idea what he needed, but he was doubtful it would be found in Jerusalem. "I'll join you later," he said finally.

Malik gave him a long look, but he only said "You'll have to hurry. I might not be in the city long."

"I will, brother."

"Then my path lies this way." Malik jerked his head in the direction of a narrow alley.

"Safety and peace." Kadar said.

His brother's frown cleared. "Safety and peace," he said before he turned away.

Kadar watched Malik go. He saw a bamboo ladder against the wall and used it to ascend to the flat rooftops. His hands and feet remembered how to climb even if his leg did not, and he gained the roof in time to watch a lopsided shadow in burgundy cloth and _rafiq's_ black vanish down an alleyway.

It was almost midday. There was a rooftop garden on the next building; a dilapidated cube of tarnished metal and faded yellow curtains. Kadar crouched within its shade and let the wail of the muezzin drown out the sound of his weeping.


	13. Chapter 13

The door of the Assassin's Bureau hung askew upon its hinges. Somebody had dragged it closed. Kadar rapped gently on the splintered wood.

He was late. He had not expected an answer. He hadn't expected to see movement through the shattered planks. And he certainly hadn't expected Malik to open the door awkwardly to the accompaniment of wood scraping upon stone and give Kadar a glare that encompassed all the street.

"You shouldn't linger," Malik said flatly. He beckoned Kadar inside despite his harsh words and leaned past him to gaze suspiciously at the crowded lane outside. "Come inside. Quickly. Do you think that you were followed?"

Kadar shook his head. Nobody had showed any interest in him except as a customer. "I doubt they've even noticed that we've gone."

"They'll have noticed." Malik said with certainty. "Now get inside."

 The bureau was both less and more than Kadar had imagined. A heavy desk lay upended on the floor. Several of the floor tiles were shattered. Others were stained with a reddish pigment that looked to Kadar like dried blood. Torn paper lay in drifts upon the floor. A bronze brazier smouldered in one corner. Ash clung to Malik's robe.

"What took you so long?"

Kadar shrugged. Malik would never mourn de Sable, and he would never understand why Kadar thought it necessary. "Why are you still here burning papers?"

"The bureau has been compromised." Malik stepped over the crumpled corpse of a messenger bird on his way to the brazier. He lifted a stack of torn manuscripts from the floor and began to feed the flames. "I must gut the place before my return to Masyaf. Altaïr rides there to confront our Master, and I-" He shook his head. "I should not leave the city. But Altaïr cannot fight alone. Al Mualim will destroy him."

"When did you begin to care for Altaïr's fate?"  Kadar asked curiously.

He could have sworn his brother nearly laughed. "Ah, Kadar. Much has changed." He looked Kadar up and down. "You most of all, I think."

Kadar began to understand. "So Altaïr's moved upon Al Mualim."

His brother nodded. "Yes. He had already begun to suspect that Al Mualim concealed information from him. De Sable's final words only confirmed it." His shrug carried the barest hint of shame. "I never thought Altaïr would have the patience to seek a deeper truth. He always was the old man's partisan."

"Altaïr convinced you, then?"

"You planted the seed of doubt. He merely gave it water. There were other things, as well."

"Other things?"

Malik snatched his hand back from a palimpsest as the skin burst into flames. The small room filled with the stink of burning parchment. "I don't have to agree with all of the Master's decisions, but his leadership has recently been …odd. Distracted."

"I'm not surprised." Kadar waved his hand in front of his face. Blood grimed the creases over his knuckles and the cracks around his fingers. "Can I wash?"

 Malik nodded. He searched amongst the debris for coals and tossed another lump on the brazier. Smoke spiralled up. "There's a fountain in the courtyard."

Kadar saw more dead birds as he ducked under the tattered canopy that separated the bureau from the small courtyard behind. A spigot trickled into a shell-shaped basin that had doubtless rinsed the blood from countless Assassin hands. The trellis above the courtyard had been shattered. A vine hung forlornly from the broken remnants, and leaves crushed underfoot filled the air with a pungent sweetness. The stones were treacherous.

"At first I thought you lied," Malik said from behind him. "That the Templars had deceived you. But gradually I came to see that things were as you said. It was us-the Assassins-that had been misled."

"I spoke the truth." Kadar said over his shoulder. He rinsed blood from his hands in long rose-pink streamers.

"I know. And the truth is true wherever it comes from. It matters not if the speaker is my enemy or my friend. Or my brother. Kadar, ride with me. You'll gain a measure of redemption if you fight with me at Masyaf."

"Enough?"

Malik shook his head. "That I cannot tell. Surely some convenient fiction may be found. You could say you lost your wits and wandered as a beggar as a time before I found you in Jerusalem." 

The thought was tempting. Kadar considered the idea for a moment as he dried his hands upon his robe. "No, brother," he said, and let the thought lie.

"Our cause is good," Malik said firmly. "Though I'll admit we have been led astray."

""I'm no longer convinced of the rightness of the Assassin cause. You can't fix that. Nothing can. I've travelled too far along this path to return."

For a moment the only sound was the crackling of burning papers in the other room. Then Malik asked "What will you do?"

"I'll seek wisdom." Kadar said.

"Wisdom?" Malik snorted. "You'll have to travel far for that. Some men seek all their lives and never find it."

Kadar grinned. "I remember you saying that about Altaïr."

"Maybe," Malik admitted. "Though I think he has learned something. I am not yet sure if it is wisdom. We'll wait and see with time." He smiled at the expression on Kadar's face, and some of the tension in his body relaxed. "I told you things had changed. If we survive, Altaïr will be Grand Master. You should stay at least still then."

"Perhaps." Kadar said. He remembered a conversation he had had with Robert months before. "The Old Man spoke of seeking wisdom to the ends of the earth."

"You know the earth's a sphere." Malik leaned against the wall. He folded his right arm across his chest and cupped the stump of his left in what seemed an unconscious gesture. "You'll end up back where you started. Besides, just because a place is far away doesn't mean it's wise."

"It doesn't mean it's not. I might go to China, and-"

"I would not. We heard stories of a great army gathering in the east. For now they are only stories, and perhaps their soldiers will not reach so far, but still-"

The concern in Malik's voice curdled in Kadar's ears. "Must I only walk the path you choose?"

Malik looked surprised for a moment. He plucked one of the leaves from the dying vine and crushed it between his fingers. "Of course not."

"You still think I'm a child. You can't protect me forever."

"I know that-"

"You think I wasn't ready. You think that's why I failed."

"Kadar, listen. None of us were ready. De Sable saw us coming. I barely escaped with my life. Altaïr fled. And you-"

"I joined the Templars." Kadar said flatly. He ground his heel against the stone, and nearly gagged at the sweetness that rose up as leaves scraped beneath his boot. "And I've killed enough men to know I don't want to kill again."

"There's other ways to serve the Order." Malik said quietly.

"I know. But you are Assassins."

"It's not too late."

"It's far too late." Kadar cut him off.

Malik let his silence speak for him. The street noise rolled in without respect, carrying with it the sound of hawkers and beggars, rich merchants and poor windows, water-sellers and fruit-vendors and all the ragged, holy chaos of the city. The call to prayer drowned out all lesser noises. The al-Sayf brothers bowed their heads in silence, though their motives stemmed more from practicality than religious respect.

"What will you do?" Kadar asked Malik once the prayer had washed over Jerusalem's spires.

"I told you," Malik frowned. "I'll finish here, then ride to Masyaf. What will happen there, I do not know. Many soldiers in the castle will still trust Al Mualim. I will do what I can."

"Will it be enough?"

"I hope so. I have my sword, and some men loyal to me. With Altaïr, who knows? If any Assassin can stand against the Old Man, it will be him."

_Altaïr_. Kadar doubted the Master Assassin would be as forgiving as Malik. "He's skilled. I used to envy him."

"I know."

"You do?"

"The whole of Masyaf knew. But enough. Let's go inside."

"It's cooler out here." Kadar said. The sweetness of dying foliage was still preferable to the stench of ash and burning parchment.

Malik pushed the curtain aside. Tattered threads trailed over his shoulder. "You'll need provisions," he said, "if you intend to travel."

It was as much as an apology as he would ever give, and Kadar accepted it with good grace. "I have a sword," he said as he followed Malik into the dingy room.

"A bad one." Malik reached beneath the upturned desk. He pulled out a sheathed sword and laid it on the table. The scabbard was simple, but beautifully crafted. Kadar recognised Masyaf work when he saw it.

"I can't take this!" 

"Take it." As if the sword had severed some last string of hesitation, Malik piled a stack of battered provisions on top. Kadar saw a flint and steel, a water-skin, a bandolier of throwing knives, dried meat. "I leave the city soon. What happens after, who knows? I may be dead. I may well not be _rafiq_. Let me do what I can."

"It's too much."

"It is not nearly enough. You should not be alone. But there is much more at stake here than you know."

"Will you tell them?"

"The Order thinks you died in Solomon's Temple." Malik gave a one-shouldered shrug. "As far as they know, your body lies there still. I shall not enlighten them."

"What about the Creed?"

"What about it? I have committed no sin. I have killed no innocents. I have not compromised the Brotherhood. Hiding in plain sight is the most basic tenet of our Creed.""  

"You still believe? Even knowing of Al Mualim's betrayal?"

"Always." Malik said. "I have found a Creed that I can live by. I hope that you find yours."

Kadar doubted that. He did not think any Creed could be sufficiently complex for his liking, though he'd been wrong before. "I'll survive. Masyaf taught me much."

"Maybe. But there are many Assassins in Masyaf and only one of you."

"I'll survive."

"Do more. Don't just wander. You say you'll seek wisdom. Be wise. You know you'll always have a place."

"I do now." Kadar said.

He looked around at the wrecked bureau. The brazier still smouldered, though the papers had burned to ash, leaving no trace of their passing save for the curl of smoke among the rafters. The air smelt of smoke. The panes of oiled paper let in little light. Kadar wondered how Malik had stood it for so long.

Malik watched as Kadar scooped the provisions he had collected into a torn cushion cover. He fastened the new blade onto his belt, where it hung half-hidden in the folds of his robes. The weight pulled at his lame leg, but it felt familiar as the first sight of Masyaf's towers.

"You don’t have to go." Malik said quietly.  

"I do. If I don't go now I might never leave."

Malik reached out and knotted his hand in Kadar's hair.  His palm was warm and callused. His brother's grip felt as familiar to Kadar as the new sword at his side. He wondered what he was doing, wondered, perhaps, if he had made a mistake.

But maybe, he thought, the trick of life was to run swiftly, gain momentum, and never look back.

"My thanks," he said.

"What for?" Malik's hand slipped from Kadar's hair.

"For everything. Safety and peace, brother."

And for you. Be careful."

It took all the strength Kadar had left to walk to the door. He pushed the worn boards open with a creak. Malik stood at the counter, his one hand clenched on the wood as it he would carve it with his fingers. He looked older, more dangerous and also more himself, as if the Templars swords had carved away everything extraneous and left a core of pure stubbornness that was _Malik_.

Kadar's heart ached worse than his leg.

"I will." he said, and walked away, with Jerusalem behind him, and all the world before.

 

 

***

_"It happened that but yesterday_

_I marked a potter beating clay_

_The earth spoke out-Why dost thou strike?_

_Both thou and I are born alike_

_Thought some may sink and some may soar_

_We are all earth, and nothing more."_

Omar Khayyam-Profession of Faith c 1120

 

Author's Notes:

This story plays fast and loose with the timeline of the last section of Assassin's Creed. References include Amin Maalouf's The Crusade's Through Arab Eyes and the poetry of Rumi (tr. Coleman Barks)  and Abul Ala Al Ma'arri. The Assassin's Creed franchise is not mine, but any errors, of course are entirely my own.

 


End file.
